


The Plan Pony's Big Book of Fated Families

by DarcyFarrow



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: AU of my AU "Coronaboosh", Abandoned Child, Adoption, COVID-19, Fluff and Humor, M/M, The Great British Bake Off References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29725764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: Naboo has one last project to complete before he's granted his Master's in Shamanic Sciences: he has to course-correct the fate of two berks who are supposed to become the fathers of a certain abandoned baby.
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Kudos: 2





	The Plan Pony's Big Book of Fated Families

29 MARCH 2014

“Very good,” said the Head Shaman as he and his student peered into the crystal ball. Very good: that was a phrase the Head seldom uttered, so Naboo’s ears pricked and his head shot up and he dared to hope. . . . But the Head was still squinting into the purple haze held within the crystal ball; Naboo couldn’t catch his eye. The student scuffed his curled-toed slipper into the dust and waited, watching, with some trepidation, the scene playing out in the haze. Under his breath he hissed, “Come on, you ballbags, don’t screw this up for me.” 

Naboo was right, on two counts, to worry: first, this was his fourth attempt to pass his Comps. If he succeeded, he would be granted his MSc in Shamanic Sciences and promoted to Assistant Shaman. He’d no longer be the eldest in his class and the primary source of embarrassment for his parents. And finally, finally, he could apply for a new assignment, away from Camden and its dim-witted ballbags. Maybe, if he received better than a passing grade, the Head would consider him for a transfer to Hawaii. The second count? The ballbags themselves. They always found a way to screw things up. 

So Naboo held his breath and studied the clearing image in the crystal ball. In a banquet hall, an elegant older gentleman in a white tuxedo rose from his off-center seat at the banquet table and raised his champagne flute in the direction of Ballbags #1 and 2, seated in the table’s center. In keeping with their character, neither ballbag was appropriately dressed for the occasion, but since the occasion was in their honor, the guests politely looked past Howard’s tweed tux and Vince’s silver lame jumpsuit. The guests’ sartorial tolerance may have also had something to do with the fact that half of them were similarly dressed: the groom’s side of the family in plaid tweed and the other groom’s in glitz and glam. “I’m not losing a son, I’m gaining a son,” declared the singularly properly dressed gentleman. “To Howard and Vince!”

“To Howard and Vince!” the guests toasted as Naboo face-palmed. He’d been working on these airheads for two full years now, gradually and delicately nudging the rickety little Howince ship through the waves of attraction, steering them carefully through the shoals of klutzy romance, and finally washing upon the shores of holy matrimony. This mighty feat had required much mental agility and magical prowess, but when at last Howard and Vince had simultaneously dropped to one knee and exclaimed in union “Marry me,” Naboo had succeeded. He’d earned that trip to Hawaii. Or Detroit. He’d settle for Detroit.

“And so they lived happily ever after.” Working up his nerve, the student dared to ask, “So do I pass?”

“Not so fast.” Now the Head turned to look at him, those shrimp-like eyes scrutinizing him. “You cemented their relationship, but you’re not finished yet.” With a wave of his hand he summoned a heavy tome— _Plan Pony’s Big Book of Fated Families_ —, opened the pages with a puff of magic, and pointed to a photograph of a cinnamon-eyed, paprika-haired infant. 

It took Naboo a moment to catch on, the implied notion was just that crazy. “You don’t mean—?” He waved a finger between the photograph and Ballbags #1 and 2. 

Dennis nodded. “When they sign the adoption papers, I’ll sign your diploma.”

Naboo groaned. “That’ll take years!”

“Remember, Naboo: it must be this child, with this couple. No other. The Mighty Plan Pony has planned it thus.”

Naboo shouted after the receding back and hairline of his Lead Thesis Advisor. “Well, do I at least get my first Familiar?”

***  
“No, no, no, it’s too soon!” the Shaman-in-Training groaned, drawing back from his Acme Young Mage’s Crystal Ball, Uni Edition™ . “Plan Pony, you slag, that baby isn’t even born yet!” He squinted through the ball’s purple haze once again to be certain. Yup, he was certain. “It hasn’t even been _conceived_ yet! It’s gonna be years before I get to Hawaii!”

***  


“No, no, no, not yet, it’s too soon! Please, one more hour!”

That wasn’t seven-year-old Wendy (Vince’s favorite) or nine-year-old Peter (Howard’s favorite) whining at their newly arrived parents; it was thirty-seven-year-old (though he claimed thirty-two) Vince, spread out on his belly on the dining room floor, with finger paints and crayons and huge sheets of butcher paper scattered around him. Leaning against her uncle-in-law, Wendy had been issuing instructions on what features to apply to the winged cow they were designing, until the doorbell interrupted their work. Now she huffed, insulted that her parents had so little respect for the creative process.

Howard stifled a laugh. 

“Nope,” said Bruce. “You’ve got school tomorrow. It’s home, dinner, bath and bed for you lot.” He swatted their behinds. “Now go get your suitcases.”

“Thank you, Howard. It was so generous of you to take them,” added Laurie. There was a warning frown between her eyes as she addressed Vince. “And thank you, Vince. I hope they were no trouble.”

“Of course not,” Howard assured them. “Right little helpers. Peter helped me with cooking and washing up every day before our Jazzercise class.”

Vince sat up, rubbing his paint-smeared fingers onto his jeans (there would be a tiff about that later, as Howard was the one who took care of the laundry). “Wendy walked the dog with me every morning and helped me hoover.” He spread his hands to display the artwork strewn across the floor. “And we created worlds together. I wish they could stay another week.” And he meant it. 

“I’m glad they were good.” 

Before that crack in Vince’s voice could widen, Howard changed the subject. “Did you have a nice time in Peterborough?”

“We did.” Laurie slipped under her husband’s arm and smiled up at him. “Very nice. Romantic.”

Peterborough seemed like an odd choice for a second honeymoon, but Vince was just happy that they’d gone. It had meant he and Howard had a whole week to play parent. As the kids dragged their overstuffed suitcases into the sitting room, Vince sat back on his haunches, falling uncharacteristically silent. Howard knew what that meant.

Sympathizing with Vince’s sudden attack of melancholy, Laurie tried to fill the silence. “What educational meals did you serve this week, ‘Uncle Howard’?” 

Howard took great pride in turning a meal into a learning opportunity. “Last night we had a ‘Prepositional Phrase’ supper: pigs in a blanket, toad in the hole, and asparagus with lemon sauce. On Friday it was ‘History Day’: Cesar salad and napoleons for lunch, Cleopatra mandarins for snack time, and beef Stroganoff, potatoes O’Brien, and strawberries Romanov for dinner. As we cooked, we played Pin the Tail on the Dictator. Next time the kids visit, we’ll celebrate Geography Day.”

“Well, say goodbye to Uncle Howard and Uncle Vince,” Bruce prompted as he picked up the suitcases. 

“And say thank you.” Laurie gave her brother a quick hug before he could protest with his customary “don’t touch me.” The kids joined her, clamoring for hugs, a demand that he couldn’t refuse, and when he released them, they threw themselves at Vince, knocking him over and peppering his face with kisses. When Bruce finally pulled them off and ordered them to the car, Vince’s eyelashes were wet. “Come back soon,” he urged softly. “Love ya lots.” 

“Love ya more,” the kids chirped, and then they were out the door.

There would be a long husband-to-husband talk tonight, Howard knew; there always was. And Howard would have no argument to put up. 

Howard and Vince watched from their balcony as Peter and Wendy were bundled into the backseat. They shouted down goodbyes and love-yous as the kids waved and the car rolled away, and then Vince leaned back against Howard’s chest. 

“You’d make a wonderful father. _We’d_ make a wonderful father. Between us, a child would have everything he needs in a parent.”

“Really?” Vince raised his head to peer backwards at his husband. “I’d be a good father? Because I know you would, but me, I’m the kind of geezer who, when it rains, instead of bringing the kids inside, I play hopscotch in the mud puddles with ‘em, and then they catch colds.”

“That’s what you have me for, to bring you macs and mugs of tea. I’d keep our kids dry and properly fed. You’d teach them how to dance in the rain. That’s a pretty good deal, isn’t it?” 

Vince leaned over the balcony to wave at the departing car. “Someday. . . .” He sighed. “Just as well, I suppose. The stretch marks would ruin the lines of my jumpsuits.”  


***  
From somewhere in the Ether, Dennis had apparently been eavesdropping, because Naboo heard the clouds boom at him: "Naboo, you knob! You'll never get to Hawaii sittin' on your duff smokin' all day. You'd better get to work." 

"Fine!" Naboo pouted. He brought the image of Ballbag #2 up in his Uni Ed. (Ballbag #1 was just so damn boring to spy on). The shaggy-haired one was yakking and yukking it up in a pub with some minor celebrities from the rock 'n' roll world who had been tapped for the Christmas special of _The Great British Bake Off_. Behind them hovered fans, buying them drinks whenever their mugs went dry. Naboo would've liked to listen in for a while—he loved gossip, and rockers always had the juiciest—but in case Dennis was still eavesdropping. . . . Okay then, time to plant some ideas. Or more effective with Ballbag #2, not ideas but _feelings_. 

"Hey, Noir, you ought to do the New Year's _Bake Off_. You'd look cute in an apron," one of the rocker guffawed. 

"Nah, come on _Buzzcocks_ sometime. The audience would love—" a heavy-set geezer was saying, when a sudden need overcame him, a need to dig into his jacket for his wallet and flick it open. 

"You gonna pay for this round, Jup?" someone laughed. "You ol' skinflint!" 

"Nah, man, I got a new set of photos of my kids. Vince, c'mere, you gotta see these. My daughters. Man, look at these. Hey, when you and Howard gonna start a family, huh? You and him could go surrogate, like Elton John did." 

"Better'n that: foster," said the server, supplying a fresh pitcher. "From your fans over there, boys. Foster. I'm doing that. We couldn't have one of our own and it takes centuries to adopt, so we fostered and we got selected right away. Here, let me show you some pictures." 

***  
“It’s just for a weekend. And it’s for charity.”

“How did they ever think of you for _Bake Off_? Sorry, Vince, I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but the last time you offered to make dinner, I caught you sketching the Campbell’s Soup can instead of opening it.”

“No worries,” Vince said brightly. “That’s just what they’re looking for in these holiday specials. The sillier you can cook, the funnier the show. That’s why they got us entertainers.” 

“I imagine it’ll be a bit of a boost for your career,” Howard admitted. “ _Bake Off_ gets high ratings.”

“And a bit of unusual publicity for _Noir at Night_. That’s why Chloe approved it.” Truthfully, the producer of Vince’s chat show was pretty flexible about allowing her star to accept outside, temporary jobs. 

“Well then! If you’re going to bake on _Bake Off_ , we’d better get started on some lessons. We’ll begin with the difference between a measuring cup and a jigger.” 

Before he left the sitting room for the kitchen, Vince clicked Howard’s turntable on. He paid no attention to the vinyl record that the needle dropped onto. It didn’t matter: Vince never used the turntable, so any record on it was guaranteed to be Howard’s. A little jazz while he cooked always loosened Howard up. 

From the kitchen, Howard sighed at the first notes of a trumpet. As Vince strolled in, Howard tied an apron about Vince’s waist (and allowed his hands to linger on the narrow hips). Vince found store-bought aprons too bland to be worn, even in private, but he cared deeply for his clothes, so he was willing to wear one while washing up, provided it was one he’d sewn himself. The one Howard has selected for him today was made of neon pink silk left over from a shirt he’d made. Though he’d once admitted to Vince he very much disliked the neon pink, Howard very much liked the silk, especially under his roaming fingers. “Mmm, Louis Armstrong. Good choice,” he murmured. “Did you know Armstrong was a foster child?”

Vince hadn’t chosen the record, nor did he know why Louis Armstrong was a good choice, but an occasional sin of omission between spouses seemed harmless. He allowed himself to be praised and cuddled. “So was Cher. You’re supposed to be teaching me about cooking.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty to teach you, Little Man, not all of it about cooking. By the way, what you’ll be doing is called ‘baking,’ not ‘cooking.’ Big difference. If cooking is Jackson Pollock, then baking is Ron Meuck.”

Vince turned a surprised grin on his husband. “You’ve been paying attention on our visits to the Tate!”

“Of course. If it matters to you, it matters to me.”

Vince reddened, ashamed: from now on he’d stop doodling on napkins during their 606 Club date nights. “Thanks, Howard. Now, what were you saying before about cups and Jaggers?”

***  
2017

Naboo jerked awake at the blast of his alarm clock. He didn’t have to rise or even open his eyes to know what was going on: this was a special alarm clock, an Acme Conceive Me Mummy! Model 2.1™, set in sync with a particular female’s biological cycle. He sighed in relief and slid deeper into his duvet. Nine months now.

***  
“Honey, I’m home!” Vince pushed their flat’s door open with his foot, his arms full of grocery bags. “Always wanted to say that.” But no one answered. The sitting room was vacant, the dining room was empty, nothing was cooking on the stove, the kettle had been unplugged. Even Howard’s turntable was cold. Leaving the groceries on the kitchen counter, he checked his phone for messages: nada.

“Howard?” He ambled through each of the three bedrooms. A woof responded when he peeked in the dog’s bedroom: Kadaway abandoned his squeaky toy (the squeak box having been removed by Howard long ago—Kad stubbornly fought with the stuffed duck to force a sound from it) to hop off his bed and trot along beside. “Howard?” Vince called from the hallway. 

He heard a stirring in the master bedroom across the hall, then some soft guitar notes. He pressed the bedroom door with a finger, not wishing to disturb; he found Howard, pencil in teeth, a stack of music paper on the bed and a twelve-string guitar across his knee. This was interesting: he’d never seen Howard play a twelve-string before. He waited, leaning against the doorway. 

Howard nodded thoughtfully and hummed, then fumbled through the hummed tune on the guitar. It was only a few bars long, but it was pretty, and judging by the erasures on the top sheet, original. Being birthed right there in front of him. Vince backed out of the room, leaving him to his creative privacy, and returned to the kitchen to cook supper.

Two hours later, a drowsy, blank-eyed Howard with red-tipped fingers ambled into the kitchen and poured himself a cup. He didn’t seem to realize that the electric kettle had been plugged in or that two pots were bubbling on the stove or even that Vince was chopping onion. “’Right, Howard?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m making vegetarian spaghetti. If you want meatballs with yours, there’s some ground sausage in the fridge. Sound okay?”

“Hmm?”

“Been writing, is it?” Vince understood; he zombied out too when he painted. 

“Been writing, yeah.” Howard woke up a little after a sip of tea. “All right, Vince?” He cleared his throat. “When’d you get home?”

“A while. Whacha writing, or is it too soon to tell?”

“Dunno, a tune that just came to me.” That was unusual; Howard usually crafted his songs. He had very definite ideas of what went where and which chords went together. Vince figured that was why jazz appealed to him; it seemed so raw-boned, even boneless sometimes. “I’ve had it in my head ever since I woke up. Drove to work and it stuck with me all day. Got home and there it was still. So I had to get it out of my head.”

“Sounded pretty.”

“A lullaby.” 

“That’ll be nice. It can be a gift when Linda’s baby’s born.”

“Yeah.” But there was a puzzled frown on Howard’s face. “No. I think it’s for something else.”

The mood needed lightening, Vince figured. With a wicked grin he turned his back, then whirled around to blob a fingerful of spaghetti sauce onto Howard’s nose. “There. I always thought you’d look cute as a clown.” 

”Very funny, Little Man. How about if I go all Jackson Pollock on your butt?” Howard thrust a wooden spoon into the sauce and attacked. 

2018

Having recently brought a new addition into their family, Howard’s sister Linda and her husband Paul were thinking their children would be safer and healthier in the countryside, though not too far into the countryside. “Out of the noise, the pollution, the crime and the traffic,” Paul said; “But close enough that we can pop down of a weekend to visit Mum and you and them,” Linda amended; “But with good schools with small classes and no gangs,” Paul said; “I’d love for us to bicycle down country lanes, as a family, past pastures full of cows and butterflies,” Linda dreamed; “And take picnics on Sundays, with homemade bread and country butter,” added Paul. . . and so on and so on. They’d been talking like this for months now, even before Linda became pregnant, and whenever they visited Howard and Vince, as they often did during football season, it was always the #2 topic of conversation (#1 being “Arsenal always tries to walk it in”). 

As to how it came to be that Paul and Linda, the country’s most loyal Juventus fans, became fast though unlikely friends with the Noir-Moons, at least during football season: that was an interesting story. Linda had grown up much closer to her outgoing, outspoken sister than to her introverted brother and while they all were kids, she thought Vince was equally weird (though fun for trading scarves and makeup tips), so, in 2010, when she graduated and became engaged, she took her fiancé to meet Howard and Vince out of a sense of familial duty. She fully expected Paul would feel the same. “We’ll stay just long enough for dinner—Howard is a good cook—then I’ll make up an excuse to get us out of there.” “Right,” Paul grumbled, pressing the doorbell. “There’s not going to be finger bowls and gazpacho and crap, is there? It’s not going to be, like, a five-course meal? ‘Cause Colchester’s playing Southend.” 

There wasn’t time to answer because the door to Howard and Vince’s flat swung open, apparently of its own accord. “Is that their Guilia parked—Wow, is this some kind of automated door—” Paul started, sotto voce, but he didn’t get to finish either question because a sudden shout interrupted. Linda stepped inside with a “Hello? Howard?” and Paul followed. 

Shouting from the sitting room, roars of approval and disappointment from the wall-mounted flatscreen, complementary aromas and elevator jazz from a room farther back, and before the guests could remove their coats, a figure appeared beside them. Propped between the fingers of his hands were four bottles. “Carlsberg, Guinness, Stella or Snapple?” The host half-faced them, his large eyes—mascara'ed—fixed on the television screen and his wide grin glistening with lip gloss. Before they could answer, something exciting happened on the screen and Vince howled. Nevertheless, his hands shot out, still offering the beverages, and the guests made their selections, sliding the bottles carefully through his fingers. 

Eyebrows raised, Linda boldly examined her host. She hadn’t seen him in several years, not since she went off to Bristol for uni, but he hadn’t aged much, nor changed much, judging from his makeup, the diaphanous designer scarf wrapped around his neck, and the silver Chelsea boots—but then there was the snug blue and white Colchester United binding his torso. She was about to introduce him to Paul, only to find both men sweeping past her to toss themselves onto the couch, pumping their fists and yelling at the screen. With a screech Linda shoved herself between them, knocking their knees out of her way and swigging her Guinness. Quietly, Howard brought in trays overflowing with sandwiches and crisps, cleared away the empties and carried in fresh bottles. Only after the match was over did he smile and offer his hand. “Hello, you must be Paul. I’m Howard and that’s Vince.”

And so it was that Paul decided his future brothers-in-law weren’t so bad after all (and their TV was far superior to his own) so he didn’t object when Linda suggested a visit, and eventually he started suggesting visits himself.

Now, nearly a decade later, conscious of their duties to their six-year-old and their newborn, the Coles had decided to check out clean and safe country villages, preferably in the Essex region, and Howard had offered (quickly seconded by Vince) to babysit six-year-old Rose and four-month-old Daisy. After a stroll through Hamstead Heath, with a stop at the adventure playground, they’d returned home hungry. “What’s for lunch, Howard?” Vince queried, then he looked down at Rosie. “Shall we go feed Kadaway?” 

“Yes please,” Rosie trotted off to the kitchen for the kibble bag as Vince knelt to remove the mutt’s leash. He shook his head with a grin. “She’s so cute with her ‘yes please’ ‘no please’ phase.”

Howard, releasing Daisy from the pram, answered the original question. “I thought alphabet soup and crackers, so we can work on Rosie’s ABCs, but first, phew!” He wrinkled his nose, holding the baby away from his body, rushing off to the bathroom. 

Which was where Rosie and Vince found him after tending to the dog: bent over the sink, washcloth in one hand, baby supported by the other, his shirt soaked. Whispering to Rosie, Vince pointed above Howard’s head as a glistening rainbow bubble floated down from the ceiling and hovered, then landed, on Howard’s ever so tiny, (assuredly) barely noticeable bald spot. (It was the bubble and the fact that Howard had no idea it existed, not the bald spot, that made Rosie and Vince giggle. Vince would never make fun of the bald spot, any more than Howard would make fun of Vince’s bunions—Howard’s mustache and Vince’s nose were fair game, however.)

Then Rosie yawned and asked permission to turn on the TV, “so we can watch cartoons, yes please?” Vince sent her on her way, promising to be in shortly, then he leaned against the door jamb to watch the bath in progress, or rather, to watch Howard progressing with the bath. He remained silent, so that Howard forgot he was there, and the latter could converse uninhibitedly with the baby. All the years he’d known Howard—from, in fact, their primary school days—Vince had seldom observed Howard intentionally do anything silly: dignity was too important to him. But right now, the middle-aged senior book editor was persuading his niece to smile by sputter-quacking like Donald Duck. 

Three thoughts occurred to Vince in quick succession: his husband was adorable when he let himself be; his husband would make a brilliant father; tending to a baby was a lot of work and Howard deserved some help. Feeling a little guilty, Vince straightened himself and quietly padded into the kitchen to heat up the soup. For an extra special touch, he decorated the crackers with Cheez Whiz smiley faces. Howard deserved extra special.

***

Today Howard turned 40. 

Vince threw him a birthday party (forsaking the bouncy castle, however, replacing it with a private event at the Essex Jazz Centre. Vince carried in his pocket a vintage nappy pin—lately he’d been acquiring the occasional small baby item and hiding them in an old paintbox in the back of his closet, just so he could take them out when Howard was at Jazzercise. He liked to hold them, the nappy pins, the booties, the Elmo Mobile, and imagine what might someday be.

But today was Howard’s birthday, and when they got home that night, stuffed to the gills with Corduroy Cake and Broccoli-Flavor Crisps, Vince presented one last, personal gift: a size Newborn hand-stitched gold lame romper, accompanied by a five-by-seven miniature painting of a paprika-haired nipper. On the lower right corner, where he always signed his work, Vince had left, in tiny, extraordinarily neat penmanship, a message: _I’m readdy._

Howard had trouble voicing his feelings, so he merely nodded and presented Vince with a counter-gift: a page from his pocket notebook, upon which he’d listed, in his ordinarily neat penmanship: _adoption agencies in London_.

***  


“We’ve been talking, me and Howard.” Vince drew with his pinkie finger a curvy path through the cloud of milk in his cup. Across the kitchen table, with tea pot and a plate of gingersnaps between them, Bryan waited patiently, whether it was for Vince to continue to speak or for his tea to cool, or both, his expression didn’t reveal. But that was Bryan: a patient waiter. Vince couldn’t remember him ever being anything but. Waiting patiently and quietly for the tour bus to arrive at the hotel. Waiting patiently and quietly for the tailor to measure the coat sleeves. Waiting patiently and quietly for the photographers to take their last picture. Waiting patiently and quietly at his child’s bedside for the last yawn to segue into a dream. 

Which was one of the ninety-three reasons (yes, ninety-three; he’d numbered them. Vince kept the list in his cape pocket) why Vince wouldn’t make a decent father. Patient waiting was beyond his reach. Fidgeting was the best he could do. Come to think of it, he’d better count the list items again; he wasn’t patient at counting, either. “We’ve been talking. Well, we’ve been married almost three years now.” He colored his tone with confidence he didn’t feel. “We’ve been together—you know, as a couple—more than twenty years.” 

Bryan nodded. 

“And friends before that—long before.”

“Since you were seven years old.” 

“We pull down four hundred and fifty thousand a year. We own a three-bedroom, two-bath flat in Highgate, six blocks from the park, eight blocks from the school. It’s a safe neighborhood and clean and Howard’s had his job since 1996 and I’ve got a three-year contract. He’s smart and musical and a good cook and his dad’s a teacher and he was always good at school. Me, I’m fun. I know the lyrics to every pop song on the charts from 1955 to last week. I can make watercolors out of mulberries and paintbrushes out of goose feathers, and a Batman cape out of parking tickets. His sisters’ kids love me. And they obey him.”

Bryan nodded again and sipped his tea. 

“I’m 37,” Vince blurted. “Howard’s 40.”

“You have a good life,” Bryan said.

“I think—we think—we’ve waited long enough. For kids. At least one, though two would be better.”

“Raising a child, especially a young one, takes a lot of energy,” Brian admitted. 

“While I can still teach her how to climb trees and kick a football. . . so Howard will be there, to teach her how to drive, to dance the first dance with her at her wedding.” 

“Are you thinking, then, of adoption? Or surrogacy?” 

“Adoption.” 

(On a planet far far away, Naboo growled into his crystal ball: “Not adoption, you pinhead. Haven’t you been listening? Foster! Fostering, you ignoramus!”) 

Vince dared to look at his father directly. “Bryan, do you think I’d be okay? As a father?”

“I think you and Howard will make a fine family.”

“I’m not too childish, myself?”

“Childish? No. Child- _like_ , yes. And Howard, he’s old-mannish. So you balance out, you see? Besides, if you have any problems—when you have any problems—you’ve always got me and your mother-in-law and your sister-in-laws. Between us, we’ve got thirty-some years of child rearing experience.”

The lines in Vince’s forehead had smoothed, but he was chewing on his lip. 

Bryan patted his arm. “Relax. That’s your best parenting quality, you know: your ability to chill out and enjoy the moment. You’ll do fine.” He sat back in the kitchen chair. “Now, as it happens, I’m performing at a fundraiser for Greater London Fostering this weekend. There are still tickets left.” He raised his eyebrows and left a question mark at the end of the sentence.

Distracted, still mulling over his parenting abilities, Vince nodded. “We don’t have anything on. We’ll be there.”

“Did you know only 13% of children in foster care get adopted? Some of them are returned to their birth parents or other relatives, but worldwide, eight million children remain in group homes or foster situations.”

“Really?” Vince woke up from his mulling. “I was lucky, then. I always knew I was, because I got you for my father, but now I know I was double lucky.” 

“So was I, Vince. It was remarkable how we found each other. Amazing, in fact. That it just happened that you, barely six months old, survived a plane crash that killed your parents, and that the smartest ape in the world came upon you in the jungle and somehow knew how to find me and bring you to me.”

“Amazing,” Vince agreed. “Like magic.”

***  
Light years away, Dennis the Head Shaman, sipping a piña colada as he listened in, via his crystal ball, smirked, then glanced over his shoulder at the diploma displayed on his office wall. “Not ‘ _like_ magic’; _was_ magic. PhD-level magic. And that’s why I’m the Head Shaman.”

***  
“Mother.” Howard grasped her by the elbow to hold her steady as she lowered into the chair. It took her a few minutes to settle herself, getting comfortable in the chair, removing her jumper, arranging her handbag at her feet; then another few minutes for the wait staff to fill the water glasses, distribute menus and take drink orders. Once they were alone and at ease at their favorite table in the back corner of Maggie Jones’, Howard tried again. “Mother, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yes, Howard.” One by one, she picked up and inspected the cutlery and dishware. It gave her great satisfaction to find a spoon with a fingerprint smudge or a glass with dishwater spots, but today she was to be disappointed. 

“Mother, as you know, Vince and I have been together many years now. We’ll well settled in secure jobs and a comfortable home.”

“Yes.” Her dark little eyes sparkled. Though she’d never asked just how much money Vince made (she knew Howard’s salary to the penny), she’d inspected the kitchenware in their flat and had a pretty good idea what they’d spent on it. The artworks and furniture throughout the rest of the home were too trendy for her tastes, so she said—meaning, too trendy for her to guess their value. Howard had had a hard time too estimating worth to report on the homeowner’s insurance forms; most of the paintings and sculptures had been made by Vince or his artist friends. 

It occurred to him now that he should place most of these items in storage, away from mulberry-stained little fingers (their child’s as well as Vince’s). “Mother, Vince and I have a lot to offer, wouldn’t you say? As a family. For a family.”

She had turned her attention to the menu. “I think I’ll have the fish pie. Oh, and the chocolate pot—that’s always good. What are you saying, Howard?” 

“Mother, Vince and I want to have children.”

She lowered her menu. “Of your own? To raise?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She ran her tongue over her teeth. “To adopt?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“There’s a long wait, you know. Especially if you want a baby.”

Howard sighed in relief. If his father were still alive, he’d have an argument on his hands, but somehow, Mother had always seemed oblivious to gender roles, when it came to Vince. She’d even helped the Little Man sew his first dress when he was seven. She did have an objection, however. “Howard, you’re nearly fifty.” 

“Excuse me? I just turned forty!”

“So is Vince. Much too old.”

Howard reddened. “We don’t plan on giving birth ourselves.”

She shook her head emphatically. “Do you have any idea how fast a toddler can run? It’s all right before the child starts crawling, but one cold day, when your joints are stiff and your arthritis is giving you fits, you’ll go to get up from your easy chair only to find that your toddler has escaped from his crib, pried the front door open and is now tottering out into the traffic on High Street and you can’t catch him.”

Howard snorted a laugh.

“Let alone when he discovers you’ve hidden the Christmas presents on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard and he climbs up on the dog’s back like a step stool to get to the counter. Crack his little skull, he will. And what about the three-leg race at the father-son picnic at church? How will you compete with the thirty-year-old fathers?”

“Mother,” Howard let the laughter escape. “Mother, we’ll manage. Linda and Laurie think it’s a good idea. We’ve managed quite well, the times we’ve babysat their kids. No cracked skulls or broken legs. Anyway, we’re unusually youthfully fit. Vince still plays football every Sunday and I have my Jazzercise.”

“I would like a fifth grandchild,” Mrs. Moon said thoughtfully. “Nevertheless, I do think you should hire a teenage nanny. If he can afford Villeroy & Boch from Harrod’s, he can afford a nanny.” She waved at Howard’s forgotten menu. “Now, you should order the grilled salmon. Trust me. You’ve been putting on weight since you got married, Howard.”

Dutifully, Howard ordered the grilled salmon and a salad—but spontaneously (and Howard was never spontaneous) ordered Bananas Foster. When his mother objected, he shrugged. “The devil made me do it.” It was just his imagination, of course, but he thought he heard a snarky chuckle from somewhere behind him.

***  


“ _Never Mind the Buzzcocks_ wants me! For a team captain!”

“Permanently? Oh, Vince, you’ll be exhausted—”

“But I love that show! It’ll be so much fun! And my contract will be just a year, so if it’s too much—”

“Of course it’s going to be too much. Two television shows at once. And if we get a baby—”

“That's not going to happen yet. We haven't even visited an adoption agency yet.”

“But _Buzzcocks_ has been on for donkey years. It could go another decade. It’s important that we both have time for a baby. And energy.”

“We will. I’m just full of it. Energy, I mean.”

“Of course you are.”

“Only 10 episodes a year for _Buzzcocks_ , 12 a year for _Night_. I’ll have one day a week off, and an entire two months in the summer. And the money, Howard; think how much we’ll save for her uni. And med school—Howard, what if she wants to be a doctor? Or a lawyer?” A dreamy shine took over Vince’s face. “Howard, what if she wants to be a doctor and a lawyer?”

“What if you keel over from exhaustion before she graduates primary school?”

“Oh, Howard.” 

***  
“I made a list.” That was what Howard did when he needed to figure things out. It was one of the traits Vince especially appreciated (and had unconsciously absorbed): he could have faith in Howard’s decisions because behind them there was a list, behind which there was logical thought, behind which there had been research. For as long as Vince could remember, Howard made lists when he was uncertain, and those lists gave Vince assurance. 

Setting down the tea pot, Vince glanced at some of the names on the typed list: _Action for Children, Hammersmith Fulham Adoption, Enfield Adoption, Adopt London_. Some of the names had asterisks; others, footnotes. At the end of the list was a Works Cited. Oh, this was a particularly good list; Vince could trust it completely. 

“I’ll catalog these later this morning, according to their Yelp rating. We’ll start with those that have the highest rating, of course, and work our way down, if necessary.”

“Of course.” Vince resumed pouring breakfast coffee for both of them. 

“I’ll call during my lunch hour and see if I can set up an informational interview with the highest rated agency. We need a counselor to explain the process, which, I understand, is rightfully lengthy.”

“I don’t have anything on for Monday or Tuesday. I don't start on _Buzzcocks_ for another week.” _Noir at Night_ aired on Fridays. 

“I’ll get us an appointment.”

A phone message from Howard awaited him when Vince returned from the _N@N_ conference room to his dressing room. A phone message, not a text—that meant something bad. Not ‘Sainsbury’s is out of Flying Saucers’ bad; more along the lines of ‘Jacquettie’s closed shop and moved to Tahiti’ bad. Vince forgot about the monologue jokes he was writing and took the message.

“It’s more complicated that we thought,” Howard said. “The application process takes a minimum of six months. There’s a group meeting for all interested parents a week from Tuesday; the agency will meet us then. They don’t usually do individual meetings with couples this early in the process. It’s a loss of time, they said; too many people lose interest after the initial meeting. After the group meeting, they’ll distribute application forms to those who are still interested. Then we’ll have preparation classes to take, then a social worker will inspect our home several times and the police will run a criminal background check on us, then if we pass those tests, the agency will interview three personal references concerning our qualifications for parenting, and then we’ll have medical exams to make sure we’re fit. When all that’s done, a panel will review our application. If they approve, then the agency will begin to match us with a child.”

“No wonder it takes six months,” Vince muttered, though there was no one to hear. But, he supposed, all those hoops to jump through were protections for the child. 

***  
Along with those lists, Howard was a compulsive note-taker, another trait for which Vince was grateful, because he found himself nodding off in the two-hour-long group meeting. The steel folding chairs were uncomfortable, the room was tight and stuffy, the tea served at the back of the room was weak, and a couple seated behind Vince and Howard kept whispering to each other and texting on their phones. As Howard’s fingers danced a hypnotic waltz across his iPad keys, Vince found his eyelids sinking lower and lower until his lashes curtained his cheeks. He tried to concentrate on the monotone monologue issuing from nondescript social worker at the lectern at the front of the room. This organization called itself the Little Angels Adoption Agency, but there was nothing heavenly about its meeting room. Vince tried to pry his eyelids open to study the PowerPoint slides. He tried to sip the cold tea. He tried, he tried. 

Behind his eyelids he saw two tiny fists waving in the air as if conducting an orchestra or leading a parade. . .his baby would be a leader, that was what those waving fists meant. . . he saw himself bend over the tiny body, taking in the scent of talcum powder and freshly bathed skin. . . he felt his lips press against a slobbery cheek. . . he heard giggles, and he couldn’t figure out if the giggles came from himself or the baby. 

***  


***  
When the Acme Conceive Me Mummy! Clock™ blasted its alarm, Naboo smacked it across his bedroom. “Why does this bird always do things at night?” But he was only annoyed, not angry, for now the Baby Everyone Was Waiting For had arrived. Finally, some progress. Finally, Naboo could begin the last chapter in Masters Thesis.

He sent Vince a little gift that night: a cheery dream (rather hard to compose because Naboo didn’t do cheery) starring a puffball of a toddler, cozy in her crib, attempting to grasp her Elmo Mobile with both hands. When she couldn’t reach it, she pulled herself up by the bars of her crib and with a mighty yank dragged the unit down. Then she grinned at a shadow in her doorway. “Dada!”

The shaman-in-training planted a stern message: Call her Naboo. 

***  
Howard was waiting in the lobby of the train station as a weary Vince stumbled in. Howard had a warm grin on offer, to be followed by a kiss and a nuzzle (having come a long way toward overcoming his fear of touching and his loathing of Public Displays of Affection), with the promise of a hot bath and a massage for those poor drooping shoulders, but a squeal of “Vince!” from somewhere within the press of travelers interrupted those plans. Trainers smacked on the tiling as four teenagers emerged from the crowd and charged at Vince in a mini-stampede. “Sign my t-shirt!” competed with “Ohmygod it’s really him!” and “I want a selfie!” Vince’s head lifted, his shoulders snapped straight and his professional smile lit up as the kids surrounded and smothered him. 

Howard watched from a safe distance. Not that any of those kids would stampede him; he’d barely merit a glance; but he’d gotten jostled, stepped on, shoved and, once, knocked to the ground when he came between Vince and the fans. After all these years, he was used to these reactions—often times, these days, from Mancunian matrons as often as Camden dollies—and had come to see them as a necessary part of his husband’s job. When the public stopped demanding selfies, signatures and kisses, it would be time to worry. Not about the money—Howard had carefully invested a sizable portion of their incomes; Vince could retire if he wanted to, and they’d live comfortably off the investments and Howard’s salary. But losing this admiration would be a blow to Vince’s self-esteemed. He’d worked so hard, so long, for this attention. Someday the forgetting would come, it had to, the gradual regression from “It’s really him!” to “Didn’t you used to be somebody?” then eventually not even a passing glance, and Vince Noir Moon would be just another bloke with a Shoreditch accent. 

When that time came, Howard would be there for him. Probably steer him gently away from the entertainment business and more deeply into art. Howard would be there, along with the Moon clan and the Ferrys, and, if they were lucky, a new addition to the family. It would be their son’s world then, Howard would remind Vince; their son’s turn to shine. It happens to every parent; that’s just nature, and it’s right. And accepting that transition wouldn’t be so hard, because Vince too would be a fan of the Noir-Moon child. 

Selfies having been taken all around, Vince started walking slowly as he signed autographs and answered the usual questions. It was the most effective way to disentangle himself without seeming rude. Howard started walking too, so that when Vince caught up, and after they’d had a quick hug, they could climb into their Volvo and go home for that promised bath and massage.

That child, that adopted son, Howard just realized, would be a vital part of Vince’s adjustment from callow youth to settled adult. Their son might even help Howard grow up too, in ways he couldn’t yet imagine.

“So how was it?” 

“It was fun. Tiring—twelve-hour days, on your feet most of it. Frustrating. It’s like stage fright, except cooking—no, baking fright. In the Signature Bake, I couldn’t remember the difference between a choux and a ganache. Then Kerry Katona cracked a joke and I giggled and cracked one back—”

“And everything was all right.”

“Almost everything. I made a fool of myself with my fruit fool, but at least my chocolate souffle didn’t fall. Neither did my jokes, and that was the important thing. Why I was there.” Vince looked across the car to his husband. “Did you know Kerry Katona was a foster kid?”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“She had four sets of foster parents. She’d heard about me and Bryan. I was lucky, wasn’t I? That he adopted me. That they let him, when they didn’t even know what happened to my birth parents. Success on the first try.”

“Lucky,” Howard agreed. “We should take Bryan out for dinner, someplace really nice, for National Adoption Week.”

“What if we had our baby by then?”

“Be patient, Little Man. Our time will come.”

“And we’re gonna be brilliant, aren’t we?” Vince started to whistle—that was one of the surprises about him; only people who knew him well knew he could whistle. Howard loved those little surprises about him. 

Howard caught onto the tune and hummed the lines he remembered. “’I’ve got the brains, you’ve got the looks. We made lots of money.’”

Somewhere behind him, Vince was sure he heard a distance snarky chuckle.  


***

Vince was late getting home. And staggering and stinking of those neon-pink drinks he liked to sip. 

“Where’s your car?” Howard greeted him in the sitting room. 

“Don’t worry, I left it—somewhere. I didn’t drive.” 

“All right then.” Hands on Vince’s shoulders, Howard pushed him onto the couch. Vince groaned the last two inches down, but as soon as he was seated, Howard pried off his silver boots. Scuffed, and there was a tear in the sleeve of his Jean Claude Jacket-ie, and a stain on his silk shirt, and his mascara was streaked and his hair had been combed lopsided. Vince would be embarrassed if he could see himself. Tomorrow, when he could see the damage he’d done to his clothes, he’d been ashamed. 

Howard got the shoes and socks off, then went after the shirt. He’d tackle the trousers after he’d fed Vince a cup of tea. “You’re going to be sick tomorrow.” 

“Nah. We only had two.” 

“Two shots or two yards?” But that was the last cutting remark Howard would ever make about Vince’s state that night. Yes, he’d gotten drunk, with his co-workers (former co-workers), in public. Loud, laughing, probably singing, definitely weeping. For the tabloids to photograph, for the bar’s customers to laugh at, for the fans to gasp at, for the production company’s PR staff to have to deal with tomorrow. But this time, Howard would defend the bad-boy behavior. The cast and crew of _Buzzcocks_ deserved one last hurrah. They’d worked hard—“Comedy isn’t pretty,” Phil Jupitus liked to say; to which Rhod Gilbert would add, “Unless Vince Noir’s doing it. Then it’s damned lovely.” 

“I won’t do it again,” Vince was apologizing. “When our baby comes, no more barhopping.” 

“It’s okay,” said Howard. “I would’ve done the same.” Not really; public displays went outside Howard’s boundaries of propriety. 

“They shouldn’t’ve done it.” Vince managed to sip the hot tea Howard had fetched him. 

“No, they shouldn’t have. You had great ratings. And with the target market.” 

“We were still funny. And fresh, Howard, our comedy was fresh.” 

“Cheeky. Here, let me get you to the bathroom.” He hauled Vince to his feet. “You’ll feel better after a shower.” 

“I don’t wanna.” But Vince let Howard half-carry him to the bathroom. “They shouldn’t’ve done it.” 

“It was a good show. Maybe they’ll do a reunion episode someday. Let me get your pants off, Vince. Hold still.” 

“Damn good show. Fresh and funny.” 

Howard started the shower and tested the heat of the water, as he would for a baby. He held Vince’s elbow as the TV star stepped into the shower. “Damn good,” he agreed. “But at least now, you can be home more often.” He soaped up the loofa. “We’ll have more time to prepare for the baby.” He scrubbed Vince’s back. “More time for each other.” 

“That’s good, innit?” Vince murmured before dunking his hair under the shower head. 

***  
FEBRUARY 2020 

It didn’t seem fair, Vince speculated. Every night on the TV news, and every Friday on his own show, when the now-regular special guest from the Department of Health and Social Care gave a five-minute update, Vince was informed how dangerous the world was becoming. Not just the virus that was rapidly circulating around the globe, but also the businesses that were being shut down and the jobs being lost. Meanwhile, he and Howard both were fully and more than gainfully employed. It wasn’t fair that they should have so much, not when Paul had been made redundant and Laurie’s hours had been slashed; not when artist friends could no longer sell a painting and musician friends were having their gigs canceled; not when “for sale” signs were being erected and neighbors were moving out. It wasn’t fair. The publishing and entertainment industries were, for the moment, thriving as the unemployment rate increased and people stopped going out. And even though they had enough, he and Howard began to cut back, save their pennies just in case. “This is just the beginning,” Boris Johnson warned. 

Even Bryan, safe in his country estate, noticed the penny pinching when Vince canceled their annual trip to Fashion Week in Milan. “Saving up for the baby,” Vince chirped. “We’re going to be a father someday, you know!” 

Bryan offered to pick up the travel tab, but Vince politely declined. “I feel more like staying home and making my own clothes. It seems right, right now. Anyway, the designers have lost their sense of adventure lately. Everything they create is so blah. 

“The energy has gone out of the world. It needs to rest a while,” Bryan assessed. 

“Even the moon needs a little sleepy right now.” 

Bryan wanted to ask how the adoption process was going, but he could guess the answer. Any good news would have taken precedence over talk of Milan. 

***  


Howard’s personal phone buzzed, right in the middle of a meeting with his most demanding and prickly client, Dixon Bainbridge. When the zoo had closed down, Howard had assumed that was the last he’d ever see of Bainbridge, but alas, it turned out that Bainbridge was related by marriage to Howard’s boss, who, on a drunken whim at Christmas, had agreed to publish the adventurer’s memoir—and to assign the project to his most reliable, most senior editor. So here they were, arguing already, and not a paragraph had been committed to paper. “No, I’m sorry, Mr. Bainbridge, we can’t include a chapter about your affair with Margaret Thatcher. For one thing, we’re liable to be sued. For the other, we’ll be ridiculed and driven out of the business. And for a third, nobody will believe you.” 

Bainbridge launched his tirade, but Howard didn’t listen; instead he sneaked a peek at his phone. “SHAMPAIN TONITE. GBBO WANTS ME FOR HOST!” 

“What?” The exclamation escaped before Howard could stop it. Assuming Howard had a hearing problem, Bainbridge raised his already booming and, normally, impressive voice to repeat his demand. Howard waved an annoyed hand at the man and openly reread the text. “Sorry, got to take this.” He stood and came round his desk to flick that same hand toward the door. When Bainbridge didn’t stand up, Howard grabbed his elbow and pulled him up. “What is the meaning—” 

“We’ll have to talk about this later. My secretary will ring you.” Howard ushered him to the exit. “Tell you what, Mr. Bainbridge: why don’t you write that chapter, longhand or typed, it doesn’t matter; and then take your lighter pipe—” As Bainbridge sputtered, Howard shoved him into the elevator. “And burn that chapter.” As the elevator doors shut, Howard shook his head in frustration. There would be hell to pay, Bainbridge would make certain of that; a furious phone call from Howard’s boss would be immediately forthcoming. But over the years he’d been with Margaret House Publishing, Howard had grown to be indispensable, or so he’d been told time and again. Besides, there was that ongoing plea from Mr. Wilson that Howard persuade Vince to write (or rather, agree to have ghost-written) his memoir. Plane-crash-baby-raised-in-jungle-by-rock-star was sure to be a huge hit. Until the day Vince signed the contract on that book, Howard’s position was safe. 

Howard trotted through the waiting area, where his secretary was struggling to hide her giggle, and back into his office to shut the door forcefully. He was typing into his phone even before he’d sat down: “WHAT?” He wanted to phone—Vince’s convoluted writing style and unique spellings rendered his written messages confusing—but if Vince was texting, that meant he was in a meeting too and sneak-typing. 

The reply came back quickly: “GBBO likes me 1 of hosts quite they want me host.” 

“Of course they like you,” Howard typed. “Are you saying you’ve been hired to replace one of the _Bake Off_ hosts?” 

A popping champagne bottle appeared as the answer. 

In typical Howard form, his thoughts leaped to the extreme. “FOREVER????” He typed, then he took a deep breath before he submitted that question. He’d been working on his little character flaw of his ever since he’d committed himself to a life with Vince. He deleted the message and rewrote: “Congratulations. That’s quite impressive. For how long will you host GBBO?” Surely, just a few weeks while the show’s producers auditioned a permanent replacement. It was just for shock value, certainly: _Bake Off_ would never hire a goth-punk-party-boy for a regular host. After all, the hosts’ main job was to calm nervous bakers— 

“Always!!! Aint that brilliant?” 

Howard’s forehead hit the edge of his desk. Deep breath, Howard, deep breath. He’d lived on the edges of the entertainment business long enough to understand the process: Vince wouldn’t have been hired without at least one, if not two, auditions, an audience test, interviews with BBC-4 representatives to make sure Vince would promise to comport himself in a dignified— 

“They sent over the contract this morning.” 

Deep breath, Howard. “Let me read it before—“ 

“Charis”—(that was Vince’s agent)—“aproved, Chloe said OK, good to go.” 

“VINCENT NOIR-MOON, DID YOU SIGN THAT CONTRACT ALREADY???” 

After a long silence: “Sorta.” 

“I’LL MEET YOU IN YOUR DRESSING ROOM IN TWENTY MINUTES.” 

***

Chloe poked her head into Vince’s dressing room. She had to shout above the men’s shouting, but that one bark from her got them to shut up immediately, apologize, then hurry out the back way to the alley, where the continued another ten minutes until finally Howard’s voice was too hoarse to yell any more. 

In the sudden quiet, Vince grinned. (It was another of Vince’s odd talents: he could turn his anger on and off like an automobile ignition. “Besides,” he shrugged, “I sent the contract back to Love Productions already. I can’t cancel it.” 

“I’m sure you could.” Howard slumped against the building’s brick wall, unmindful of the filth that his Debenham’s suit was collecting. “But you won’t. You’re determined to kill yourself, aren’t you? Drop dead from exhaustion. Your son’s first and last image of you will be you in a coffin.” 

“Oh Howard, don’t be such a pessimist. Of course I can handle this. _Bake Off_ only films on weekends. Ten episodes.” 

“Twice a year. And the holiday specials. And personal appearances.” 

“My contract’s for one year. So if it’s too much work, I won’t resign.” 

“There’ll be something else,” Howard moaned. “Some other show will come along and want you and you’ll go behind my back because it just never occurs to you to say no. It just never occurs to you that other people might need you, like our son. Like me.” 

Vince slid his arm around his husband’s waist and pressed his cheek to his chest. “It’s gonna be fine, Howard, really. Think of what this will do for my career. Nobody will expect it. Me, of all people, picked to host _Bake Off_. Me? And when they see what I can do, there’ll be movie offers.” Vince’s eyes broadened as he stared off into space, watching his imagined future play out in the clouds. “Comedies—I’ll play the hotel manager in _Best Exotic Marigold III_. Or the prime minister in the _Love Actually_ sequel. Fantasies—can’t you just see me as Maleficent? James Bond—I’ll be the next Bond! It’s possible, Howard, can’t you see it? All I have to do is subvert their expectations. Show ‘em I have range. _Bake Off_ will do that for me. Show ‘em I’m not just a helium-headed beach ball.” 

Howard kicked at a flattened Coke can in the dirt. “I think,” he said carefully, “you’re expecting too much from _Bake Off_.” 

Vince’s enthusiasm, as always, was un-deflatable. “They’ll let me bring some of the bakes home. Eh, Howard? Imagine the dinner parties we can have.” 

“What about our son? He’ll never see you.” 

Okay, that was the pin that pricked Vince’s balloon. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen.” 

“How are you going to manage any time for him when you’re juggling three TV shows at once?” 

“No, I mean, I don’t think the adoption’s going to happen. It’s like there’s a curse or something. We’re un-adoptable.” 

So that was what this push to take on new work was really about. Vince was running away. “It’s like the South London Young Artists Competition, isn’t it.” When Vince was fifteen, with the encouragement of Bryan’s artist friends, Vince had worked diligently—three words no one outside the Ferry and Moon households ever would have linked: _Vince worked diligently_ —to prepare his submission. If he’d won, who knows what future would have awaited him? Far more than scholarship and blue ribbon; that year’s winner had gone on to open her own gallery. “But surrealism just wasn’t in vogue that year.” 

Vince kicked at the same Coke can. “Or I wasn’t. . . .” 

“No, you were good. Just unusual. If you had won, Vince, we wouldn’t be here now.” 

“What’re you on about, Howard? Yeah, okay, I wouldn’t be in television but everything else—“ 

“None of it would be the same. _We_ wouldn’t be the same. You’d gone off to Oxford, then Paris or Rome, Berlin. There’d been letters, phone calls, hand-painted Christmas cards, but over the years they’d fall off. Someday, eons later, you’d get an invitation from a geography teacher in Leeds that you kind of remember, to attend his wedding to a gym teacher, and you’d go, just for the hell of it. You’d shake his hand in congratulations—” 

Vince had blanched. “No I wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be like that. I wouldn’t leave—you’d go to Berlin with me.” 

“No. I’d be a headmaster in Leeds. Summers at the seaside, waiting for my pension.” 

“Oh Howard.” The tears began and Howard dried them with his handkerchief. 

“I’m sorry, Vince. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Hugs brought them both back to the present. “But it’s not like that, isn’t it? It’s you and me in Highgate with Kadaway and a baby on the way and”—he signed in resignation—“three jobs between us.” 

“I’ll make it happen, Howard, I promise. And if we ever do—when we do get the baby, I’ll cut back on the jobs. No more MC gigs, no more guest appearances. And no more clubbing; I’ll be a stay-at-home daddy.” 

”I know you will, Little Man.” Howard dusted off Vince’s trousers. 

***  


“You ballbag, you.” Naboo spat sunflower seeds at the crystal ball. “You absolute moron. How many times do I have to tell you your baby is coming? You got no business taking a second job when you have a baby on the—” 

“Hey Howard?”

“Shh, Vince. I’m trying to sleep.”

“Howard? Hoooooward. Howard!”

“This isn’t one of those tarantula banana things again, is it?”

“What do you think of the name 'Naboo?'”

“What?”

“'Naboo.' The name. It’s easy to spell and no other kid in the school will have the same name.”

“For our son?”

“For our daughter.”

“Go to sleep, Vince.”

28 FEBRUARY 2020

The expert guests had come in together, having been driven in by _Noir at Night_ ’s official driver. As Chloe brought them into Vince’s dressing room and an intern dashed about to fetched refreshments, the star shone his charm upon them individually. It was one of his great strengths as an interviewer: a smile, a handshake and a warm greeting—he never forgot a name—plus a small revelation of something personal or a little self-deprecating joke could make any non-celebrity feel they’d been made an instant friend of Vince Noir. The celebrities, aware of this particular acting technique, either studied it for their own future use or shone it back upon him.

Chloe made the introductions: “Hudson Thackeray, director of New Family Social” (handshake and charm from Vince); “Mariette Shipley, director of Greater London Fostering” (handshake and charm); “and Josslyn Wickham, Minister of State for Social Care” (ditto). “And of course everyone knows Bryan Ferry.” Bryan got a hug. 

Over Vince’s shoulder, Bryan explained to the others, “My job title for the evening is ‘foster-slash-adoptive father.” He smiled down at the Goth Juiced head beneath his chin. “A proud adoptive father.”

“If you don’t mind,” said Ms. Shipley, “Hudson and I thought it would have a greater impact if we brought along some children to help us make our case.” 

“It’s easy enough to say no to this ugly mug.” Hudson pointed to his grizzled features. “But to irresistible children?” 

“We know that wasn’t the original plan. . . .The children can sit in the audience if that’s not acceptable. We brought a few toys to keep them amused.”

“Love it,” Vince’s tone was firm; the matter was decided. 

“Well then!” Chloe said. “Let’s go have a look at the set and we’ll trial-run the interview.”

An hour later, the four guests were seated comfortably on the purple semi-circular couch, sipping cups of tea and half-answering questions, half-chatting as if they were neighbors invited into Vince’s living room. The audience, the bright lights, the band and the blinking cameras had caught and kept the attention of one of the children Thackeray had brought along; through most of the show, the seven-year-old stared, one after the other, at each of those remarkable things, occasionally pointing and demanding information, disregarding the fact that he was interrupting the adults (or perhaps assuming his information needs took precedence). Vince, instead of sitting in his roller chair, facing his guests, had planted himself cross-legged on the floor. 

As for the other two children, the four-year-old girl was seated on the floor, across from Vince, so she and Vince could play with her plushies. She’d borrowed Vince’s interview cards, the photograph of Kate Bush that usually sat on his desk, and some toys Vince had contributed to the cause, taken from a secret box in his dressing room closet. Boomer the Robot Dinosaur, a wind-up submarine, a Slinky, a jar of Play-Doh, an Etch-a-Sketch and a handful of Weebles had all been recruited to create a circus starring the plushies. In between moving the pieces around in accordance with the child’s instructions, Vince would chatter away with her, occasionally remembering he was supposed to ask questions of the experts. 

The third child, a two-year old, lay back into the crook of Vince’s arm and stared up at him. She seemed to have a fascination with his nose, a curiosity that Vince understood perfectly. As an artist, he’d often thought one could learn more about a person from studying the nose rather than the eyes. Now and then she babbled at him and he bent his head toward her ear to quietly babble back.

A signal from the director and Vince remembered abruptly that they’d come to the five-minute mark: it was time for Bryan to lead the show out to its closing. Perching on the arm of the couch with the four-year-old and the seven-year-old at his feet, he accompanied himself on an acoustic guitar. His selection was “I Get to Be the One,” in which a new father praised his luck. With Vince captured by the sleeping infant, Bryan had to take over the host’s farewell. 

It was chaotic, it was messy, it wasn’t a proper interview at all; the audience learned next-to-nothing. But when the show was over the studio audience stood as they applauded, and they washed down over the expanse between their seats and the stage. Some of them, remembering that they were adults, approached the guests to ask questions and take phone numbers; others, remembering that they were parents, came near the children but kept enough of a distance as to not startle them. One of the audience members, a gray-haired geezer with a tar-thick Glaswegian accent, plopped himself down between the girl and Vince and helped himself to the Play-Doh. After studying him silently for a moment, the child decided the man was worth her time and she began instructing him in how to play her game.

Meanwhile, the toddler in Vince’s lap had fallen asleep, its thumb in its mouth. Periodically Vince would extract that thumb, but the baby would pop it right back in again. 

Chloe appeared to shepherd the guests to the green room, and once all the guests had gone, the audience left too. Collecting his toys to return them to his no-longer-secret box, he felt a heaviness come over him. Maybe it was envy, that the audience had been so entertained by the kids that they’d practically ignored him, or maybe it was the sudden emptiness of his lap and the sudden coolness at the crook of his arm. After glancing around to make sure none of the production crew were noticing, he lifted his arm to face and sniffed. Ah, Warm Baby, a scent as appealing as Versace Eros. He returned his toys to the closet, washed his face, changed out of his stage clothes, then put on his professional smile so he could join Chloe and the guests in the green room for a light supper. 

He found the younger children sleeping on a couch, while the seven-year-old ran from end to end of the banquet table, sampling and quickly discarding sandwiches, canapes and sweets. He gazed at the baby—but it would’ve been selfish if he’s picked her up for a cuddle, so he refocused on the adults. While Chloe was talking shop with the MP and Mr. Thackeray, Ms. Shipley had ushered Bryan off to a quiet corner. Vince wondered if there might be a little flirting going on, Bryan being single at the moment and sharing a common deep commitment to her charity. To avoid interrupting, Vince filled a plate with sushi and lemon bars, then started over to the larger group, but Bryan summoned him. 

“I was just telling Mariette about the problems you and Howard have had with Little Angels.” His expression was one of serious concern and slight guilt. 

“Very strange.” Ms. Shipley shook her head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. It’s as if gremlins had got into the system. Such bad luck!”

Vince banged a palm against his ear: there it was again, that nasty snicker. 

“Something wrong with your ear, son?”

“Erm. No. I should apologize, Ms. Shipley; I kind of slipped in my hosting duties and I forgot to thank you during the show.”

“Well, thank you for having us. I expect we’ll be getting some calls tomorrow. They may result in some adoptions or fosterings.” She studied Vince. “You know, we’ve met before.”

“I remember. At the fundraiser last year.”

“And before that, briefly. When you had that band and you came to perform at a benefit for the Children’s Network, oh, five or six years ago, I guess.” Her eyes twinkled. “You don’t look much older. You have a young man’s energy.”

“It’s the clothes.”

“It’s the playful spirit too.” She glanced over at the sleeping children and his eyes followed hers. “It’s not unusual for adults to play with children, but you seem to actually enjoy it.”

“It’s their imagination, where I connect with them. I’m not as weighed down as most grown-ups, I suppose. Howard takes a lot of the adult burden for me. Not that he’s not playful too, just in a more teacherly way. Like, he invented this game where he mixes meals with school lessons. Like Geography: you have to find the place on the globe and then you can eat that food. Baked Alaska. Swiss cheese. California roll. German chocolate cake. Swedish meatballs.”

Ms. Shipley chuckled. “You know what I think? I think your father’s right: you and Howard would make some lucky child a fine set of parents.”

“Cheers.” 

“There’s a dog in the household too. A very friendly one,” suggested Bryan. “And four aunties and uncles, four cousins, two grandparents. And a spacious flat in walking distance of schools and Highgate Park.”

“A clean flat,” Vince put in. “That’s one thing we’re both good at.” His mouth quirked up. “Howard likes to wash up; I like to hoover.”

“Sounds like a sales pitch,” Ms. Shipley observed. She sipped her tea, watching the sleeping children. “It seems to me you were quite taken with Abigail. And her with you.”

“She’s a cuddlebug.”

“You heard about this new, contagious disease that’s going around? Coronavirus?”

“We did a program about it last month. It seems to dangerous and spreading.”

“Well, do more programs. People need to know. Abigail there, her mother abandoned her. Her father’s not been found. We had a foster home arranged for her, but the wife caught the virus. It’ll be some time before they can safely take a baby into their house. In the meantime, Abby needs a home. Preferably with someone she’s taken to, like she took to you.” Ms. Shipley fixed Vince with a meaningful stare.

“The way you took to her,” Bryan added. “You’ve taken care of babies before. You have a knack, son.”

“As I said, it’s probably a month or two.” 

Vince had no mind to make up, no decision to make. Things were simply happening. He beelined—on tiptoe—to the couch, dialing his phone as he went. “Howard? Look what I found!” He aimed Facetime at the sleeping toddler. 

***  
One last snicker, then Naboo wheeled on his mentor. “Now?”

“They haven’t signed the adoption papers yet, have they?”

“Aw, come on, Dennis!”

***

Half-asleep, Abby didn’t object when the mustached stranger took her; she simply adjusted her moist cheek to the least bony area of this new shoulder. Ms. Shipley watched the transfer from Vince to Howard, then gave a quick nod to Bryan. 

“Howard.” Vince spoke in his late-night voice, soft and low. “I’d like you to meet Abigail.”

“Her name means ‘my father’s joy,’” said Ms. Shipley. 

Howard blinked hard. “Make that plural: ‘my fathers’ joy.’”

There was a formal process, of course, that prospective foster parents had to follow before Greater London Fostering could release a child to their care, but Ms. Shipley gave them an abbreviated application form and interview, right then and there in the green room that evening, while the other show guests were driven home. “I’m required to do a home inspection before you take the child, but since it’s after eight o’clock—”

“No, that’s all right, let’s follow the rules,” Howard interrupted. “We want her home with us tonight.” 

Vince saw the doubt in Ms. Shipley’s face. “We don’t have furniture and the like yet—we didn’t know what age our daughter would be—but everybody in the family has things to give us, stuff for 0-14 years. We can ring them right now and have things brought over in the morning.”

“They all want to give something,” Howard said, “so he—she—will feel like part of the family from Day One.”

“I have a handmade crib; my grandfather carved it for his babies and it got passed down to my boys,” Bryan said. “My housekeeper can drive it over tonight.”

Howard was already making notes in her iPhone. “We’ll need a pram and a high chair—Linda will supply them.”

“My assistant will send over Abby’s clothes and toys. Of course, I brought along a bag with Sippie cups and some juice and plenty of nappies,” said Ms. Shipley, with a wry smile. “I’m afraid Abigail is a bit behind in her potty training, nor has she begun to speak words. Perhaps in the quiet stability of your home, and with your encouragement, that will change. She walks very well—you’ll need to keep a close eye on her to prevent her from dashing outside.” Then her smile faded. “But remember, gentlemen”—her gaze swept across all three men—“this is temporary, just a month or so, so don’t go overboard with your acquisitions.”

Vince shifted the sleeping toddler to his other side, his right arm having fallen asleep from the weight. “I think you’re wrong, Ms. Shipley.”

Howard shot him a warning glance. “We understand, Ms. Shipley. Rest assured, though, we’ll give her the best care while she’s with us. You don’t happen to know if she’s allergic to dogs?”

Ms. Shipley laughed. “That I can’t answer. But if it’s all right, then, I’ll go home with you for the inspection tonight—I understand you didn’t have time to prepare so any dog hair on the carpet or dirty dishes in the sink will be ignored.”

Howard jerked his head back: the thought of an untidy house was foreign to him. “Oh no, ma’am, our home is ready for inspection, scrubbed daily and” —he glanced at Vince—”freshly hoovered.”

She rose and the men stood up too. “Well, then, Mr. Ferry, if you’ll ring for that crib?” 

Howard looked meaningfully at Vince. “We’ll take my Volvo. It’s roomier.” By which he meant I drive better than you do. 

***  
Her inspection was brief and full of compliments, and as Vince gave her the tour and Howard put on the kettle, Bryan waited on the couch, holding Abby against his shoulder. Kadaway came out of his bedroom to say hello and Howard introduced the dog to the baby; Ms. Shipley ended the tour to observe the pet-toddler interaction. Abby opened her eyes to stare at Kad, who obediently sniffed as Howard issued instructions to the dog; then Howard sent Kad back his room. The toddler fussed; Bryan spread a nappy on the carpet, laid Abby on it, then went to work with wet wipes. 

“You seem to be familiar with the procedure, Mr. Ferry,” said Ms. Shipley. “You approach the task without hesitation.”

“It’s been a good long while; none of my children have their own yet.” He peered into the bag. “No talcum powder?”

“Pediatricians advise against it,” Howard replied. “It can get in the lungs.”

“Very good, Mr. Moon,” Ms. Shipley approved.

“We learned a lot from Howard’s sisters,” Vince said. 

“Tea, Ms. Shipley?” Howard escorted her to the dining table, and she interviewed them, filling in the blanks on the application form. Meanwhile, Bryan made a nest of pillows on Howard and Vince’s bed so the baby would have a quiet place to rest until the cradle arrived.

Ms. Shipley was only halfway through the form when she took a last sip of her tea, capped her pen and stood. “That’s enough. I have only one more question: will you give this child the love she needs to thrive, and yet love her enough to let her go when her adoptive parents are ready for her?”

The husbands looked at each other. Howard waited for Vince to answer; if there was a “no” to be answered to the last part of the question, Vince would have to admit it now. Vince’s answer was slow in coming. “It won’t be easy, I can tell already, but we’ll do what has to be done to give Abby her best life. Maybe her parents”—he intentionally emphasized the last word—”will let us look in on her now and then.” Bryan leaned over to slide an arm around his son’s shoulder. 

“But we’ll respect their wishes if they say no,” Howard finished. 

“Then, Mr. Moon, if you will drive me home?”

***  
“You see?” Naboo, so normally unflappable (often thanks to assistance from a little natural relaxant), pointed at the Head’s high power crystal ball. “You see that?” He threw himself back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Give me my diploma.”

Dennis pretended to sympathize. “No, Naboo, you’re not finished. They’ve only been accepted for fostering. Short-term at that. They haven’t signed adoption papers yet.”

Naboo groaned and openly lit a fat one.

***  
In the bedroom that yesterday had been for guests, a PJ Masks nightlight gave enough of a glow that a nervous father could peek in to reassure himself that all was well. Kadaway, whose stiff joints might slow his reaction time but whose ears were as sharp as in his youth, slept in the room next door, and the master bedroom was directly across the hall. The crib had arrived (Bryan bemusedly pointing out the rough edge where baby Vince had soothed his sore gums when his lower incisors had come in), with the housekeeper providing a new fitted sheet. When the housekeeper drove home with Bryan, the flat seemed oddly quiet after all the day’s bustle. 

Howard and Vince stood over the crib. Neither one wanted to be the first to leave the room. They whispered to each other.

“I don’t think she’s allergic.” When Vince tilted his head in question, Howard explained, “To dogs.”

“Oh. No.”

“That’s a cute nightlight. When did you—”

“A while ago. There are other things too. Little things. I didn’t show you, in case, you know.”

“But it did, it happened. For now, anyway.” Howard yawned. “I’ll take a personal day tomorrow. You’ll have to—”

“Yeah. But I’ll call at every break. I’ll get one of the interns to show me how to Skype.”

“Zoom,” Howard corrected. “It’s Zoom these days.”

“Will you be okay, you and her alone? If not, I can come home.”

“You have a show to do. We’ll be fine. And we won’t be alone. Ms. Shipley will check in, and my mother will want to meet the baby.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”

“I wish I—”

“I know. But you’ll have all day Sunday with us. Won’t you? No meetings, no events?”

“No. I mean, yes, I’ll have all day with you. And her.” Vince’s voice grew husky. “Do you know how lucky we are?”

“Yeah, but—you know.”

“I won’t forget. Believe me, I won’t forget.”

“She’s ours for a little while.”

“But I have a feeling. . . .”

“Don’t, Little Man. It’s temporary.”

“Maybe, but love isn’t.”  
***

During their first Zoom call at lunchtime (with the intern standing by, but discreetly, in case troubleshooting was needed), Vince was greeted by his mother-in-law’s bewildered face. “Howard! How do I turn it on?”

A distant voice answered, “It’s already on, Mother. Just look at the screen and talk.”

“Vince?” 

“Hi, Alma.”

“Hi, Vince. This is better than television. Howard, come turn the volume up.” 

“Mother, I’m feeding the baby. You can do it yourself; just click on that bullhorn icon on the lower—”

“Which? What’s ‘icon’? You’re going to have to show me.”

Vince: “Don’t worry, Alma. I’m just learning too. I have an assistant here in case I break something.”

An angry wail from the baby. Vince chuckled. “Is she mad because she’s hungry or is she mad because nobody’s paying attention to her?” 

Alma scooted out of view to be replaced by a frazzled Howard and a red-faced Abby. “Hi, sweet pea!” Vince waved but the child didn’t seem interested. Abby on his hip, Howard struggled to keep a spoon steady as she wiggled and howled. “A bit of both, I presume. She’s part me and part you: the me part is hungry, the you part demands everyone’s attention.”

“Maybe she wants to feed herself. She seems pretty independent to me. Other than that, how’s it goin’?”

“Not too bad. She seems very interested in exploring: I’ve been walking her around the flat, giving her the grand tour. We went out earlier to walk the dog. Mother brought over a pram and a high chair from Linda’s. Ms. Shipley brought over Abby’s clothes and coats.”

Alma shouted in from the kitchen: “I brought Howard’s first teddy bear. The google eyes are missing but it’s clean.”

“Thank you, Alma. Did she eat her breakfast?”

“I had a Danish,” Alma shouted back.

Behind Vince, the intern cracked up. “I meant the baby, but—I’m glad to hear you had a nice breakfast, Alma.”

“Abby had some oatmeal and orange juice. For lunch, if she’ll sit still long enough, she’s having peas and a cheddar cheese sandwich.”

“I’m having tilapia!”

“Thanks, Alma. Do you need me to pick up anything?”

“Nappies. Can’t have too many nappies. Size 4. And a potty chair and training pants.”

“Right. I’ll pick up dinner at Carob Tree. Your usual?”

“Thanks. I’m going to be too tired to cook. I’m taking two weeks’ paternity leave starting Monday. I have some projects with tight deadlines that I’ll need to finish here at home, but other than that, I’m all Abby’s.”

Vince let his smile drop. “I can’t—not for another week, and then it’s a day or two here and there. . . .”

“I know. This came upon us quickly, Vince. Don’t beat yourself up over it. We’re fine.”

“But what if—if she goes back in a month, I won’t get—I’ll barely get to know her and then we’ll have to take her back.”

“I’m sorry. We’ll just make the most of the time we have. Parks, picnics, Daddy and Me, playdates with other babies.”

“There’s _Night_ and _Bake Off_. . . .”

“But at least there’s Sundays and the evenings.”

“Yeah.”

The toddler took a bite out of Howard’s shoulder. “Yeow! Look, I’d better go. Ring me again at tea time?”

“I will.” 

“I love you, Little Man.”

“I love you too, Maverick.” 

***  
In the evening when Vince got home, the tiredness that followed him through the streets and into the living room lifted immediately. There were warm odors floating in from the kitchen, there was warmth throughout the flat, there were _Sesame Street_ songs playing at a nearly subconscious level on Howard’s turntable. On the floor sat Abby, stacking a set of wooden blocks that had once belonged to Laurie’s two; her powers of concentration reminded him of those he’d seen in painters and sculptors, himself as well. Also on the floor, one leg awkwardly drawn up to his chest, sat Howard, writing in one of his notebooks. Vince could not remember the last time he’d seen Howard sitting on the floor.

“What are you writing?” Vince kept his voice low, to avoid breaking Abby’s concentration. 

“Hmm? Oh. Notes. Observations about Abigail, what she does and how, what interests her, what bores her, what angers her. And this biting habit of hers. An amateur scientific study, I suppose.” His eyes fell back on the notebook.

“Can I read it sometime?”

“Of course.”

Vince pulled off his shoes and tossed them in a corner, then plopped on the couch. “Tell me some.”

“Ehr, well, she seemed particularly fascinated by the water fountain in the park and the people playing tennis. She kept trying to follow the birds overhead but the sun got in her eyes.”

“I’ll buy her some baby Ray Bans tomorrow. What else?”

"She poked at her right ear several times.”

Vince frowned. “Ear ache?”

“That’s what I thought at first, but she didn’t appear to be in any discomfort. After the poking she fell asleep in her stroller.”

“A self-soothing thing, then.” Vince was pleased that he’d paid attention to Laurie and Linda’s conversations.

“And then there’s that.” Howard pointed with his Biro; Abby was biting—hard—at the C block. “She does that from time to time.”

“Teething?” He was confident of his guess; after all, he’d babysat his nieces- and nephews-in-law plenty of times. He was envious all over again, for the observations he hadn’t been home today to make. Sure, he knew some stuff, but he wanted to know more. She was as fantastical and mysterious as a Moreau unicorn. 

He crouched down beside the child and for the first time since he came in, she spoke to him, in a fluent, complete language with inflections and rhythms—just not English. He dropped down to the carpet and started to tell her about his day. She wiggled her fingers at him, a language he did understand; he placed her on his lap. She let her head bang against his chest, talking back to him, the C block clutched in her hand. He committed the details to memory so he could paint them after she went to bed, so that someday, when she could understand his feelings, he could show her this moment.

***

The weeks flew by. Howard stopped shaving and Vince caught him once wearing the same trousers as the day before, but with drop-in assistance from Alma, Laurie and Bryan, he managed to balance work, baby and sleep. One evening, when Vince came home to find the toddler already down for the night, there were a few tears and threats to quit his jobs (at least one of them); Howard soothed the hurt and reminded Vince that not only were there contracts to be fulfilled (legal documents of any kind impressed Howard, but Vince, not much) but also people’s salaries—their mortgages, their children’s university tuition, their car notes and their summer holidays—depended upon the success of Vince’s shows. And those shows, all three of them, had been thriving ever since Vince had taken them on. “It’s not the quantity of time but the quality that you spend with her,” Howard claimed, though Vince, who’d been raised by a rock star, knew better. 

But then the weekends! All day long on Sunday, all those activities Howard had named, and Howard playing the guitar for her while Vince sang and held her on his lap and taught her to clap. Playing with the dog (for limited amounts of time, because Kad was an elderly dog and Abby’s energy was unlimited), meeting other babies during Daddy and Me, watching TV, napping with her in the crook of his arm. Giving her baths, dressing her (oh he loved dressing her up! Just as Howard loved experimenting with different foods, discovering what she liked—oatmeal, peaches, carrots— nd what she didn’t—meats [Vince claimed she’d inherited his vegetarianism; Howard didn’t argue]). After he’d put her to bed with a story (good thing Vince’s stories never had an ending; she couldn’t stay awake for them) he and Howard would watch her a while before collapsing into bed themselves. They understood now what Laurie and Bruce, Linda and Paul meant about gaining a baby but losing a sex drive. But it was temporary; Vince felt this so keenly, sometimes he was desperate to wake her for another hour of play and cuddles. He was envious of his brothers- and sisters-in-law, because they didn’t live under the time crunch. He talked with Bryan about this: Bryan who’d raised four sons while making music and touring the world. Bryan had felt the same desperation for another hour at home, but he had no solutions, only empathy. And he talked with his husband about his fear of losing her, a fear that grew every day, but Howard could only massage his shoulders and agree. 

In the second week, Vince managed to carve out an extra day at home; from then on, he’d grab whatever free time he could from his jobs. Howard had to return to his job, but a nanny was hired, with Alma making frequent visits (sometimes even spending the night so her boys could get a full night’s sleep—she slept on a rollaway in Kad’s room). She’d done as much for her daughters; it was only fair to help Howard. 

During the fourth week Vince cheated and called in sick from his chat show. Fortunately Tom Hiddleston was between _Thor_ s and agreed to cover; he was a born conversationalist. On that day, Vince taught Abby how to paint, sort of, with berry juice (big mistake: after that, they couldn’t feed her fruit without her trying to paint with it). When she brushed her hair by herself for the first time, he rang Howard on Zoom. Damn it, he forgot to take a picture. 

And then the call.

Ms. Shipley came personally, bringing an assistant (to carry things? Or to fight off resistance?) She waited until both of them got home. The call had come so quickly, they had only that day’s notice, barely enough time for hair brushing and finger paints. Barely enough time for kisses and tears. Howard had never cried in front of anyone but Vince, but he did this day, without shame, because Ms. Shipley sniffled too. “They love her already,” she tried to reassure them, “they have three kids of their own and they’re all waiting for her, they’ve waited so long.”

“Let ‘em wait,” Howard growled. “Another week.”

“They have three, they don’t need another,” Vince argued.

“It’s promised, it’s been promised from the second day she came to us. They came and saw her and wanted her immediately. The process—it takes a while, all that paperwork, and the Board has to approve—we rushed it, because a baby should be in a home, not an institution—”

“We have a home,” Howard insisted. “We love her. All of us, Ferrys and Noirs and Moons, from our first moment with her.” A fat tear clung to his mustache. Vince snuffled loudly and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand—he didn’t care that he was the Sunshine Kid; right now he was a dad. Howard laid a protective arm across his shoulders. 

“Are you sure? Are you sure 100 percent that the missus is healthy? That it’s safe?” Howard demanded. “And that they’re right for her? Because we are. Right for her, I mean.” 

“You said we shouldn’t. You were fair with us. Honest. You said we should love her but not too much.” Vince wasn’t making much sense but his head was as clogged as his throat. “But we didn’t listen, I guess, or couldn’t.” 

Ms. Shipley just shook her head and the assistant picked up the bags, all the stuff that Abby had come with and most of the stuff that her foster family had gifted to the child. Not the crib, though; that had to stay in the Ferry family. Ms. Shipley reached out her arms and Howard, with a curled lip, handed the toddler over. 

“Wait.” Vince ran off to the baby’s/the guest room, returning with a scrapbook. Howard had filled it with photos (his favorite was one of the three of them splashing in the wading pool at the park); Vince had supplied a clipping from Kad’s tail and some of the berry paintings. They’d both signed the front page with a special message and their phone numbers. “In case they might want to bring her by sometime.”

“Or have us for tea,” said Howard.

“Or she might want to look us up.”  
***  
They went back to their routines. The nanny was discharged, Alma went home, Bryan took the crib back. Howard returned to his cooking and, through Vince, approached that series’ _Bake Off_ runner-up about writing a book (the winner already had a book contract elsewhere). He wanted a challenge, something he’d never tried before, so he launched a line of travel books. He thought he might write one himself, a guide to historically significant jazz locations. And, uncharacteristically, he attempted to steal a famous novelist from another publishing house, because he was feeling mean one day. 

It was good, gradually; their life was good. Howard won a Nibbie, Editor of the Year; he got a plaque and there was a nice banquet at which he gave a speech. Bake Off won a BAFTA. Vince got to meet Iggy Pop. 

The virus that had hospitalized Abby’s adoptive mother rose up like Godzilla and stomped its killing way across England. The country joined other nations in restricting human contact. Businesses and schools closed, buses and trains reduced schedules. People were told to stay home, stay indoors, stay away from anyone outside their household. Alma couldn’t bear to be alone so she fled to Linda’s house and there she stayed for months. To his agitation, Bryan had to cancel all his performances and recording sessions. His housekeeper quit to live with her sister, so he had to cook and clean for himself. Howard worked from his home office, with fax machines, phones, FedEx and Zoom. For a while, _Noir at Night_ stopped filming and depended on reruns; _Bake Off_ had already finished its series and gone on hiatus. For several weeks, Vince had nothing on his schedule except hoovering and walking the dog. 

The Americans, under the same lockdown, figured out a solution first: not a great one, but at least their talk shows began to pick up filming new episodes, with the host taping from his home and interviewing guests by Zoom. The ratings were okay; restricted to their homes, the public had little else to do but watch TV. Gradually their technology got better and the hosts learned how to function without a live audience. The _Noir at Night_ staff took lessons from _The Tonight Show_ and resumed filming, though at first, guests were in short supply; gradually, one by one, the A-listers, with nothing else to do—no movies in production, no concerts in tour—began to trust Zoom and figured out how to perform from within their cocoons. Stars must shine. Vince ran his show from the guest bedroom. It wasn’t much fun; nothing was fun any more; but the public needed distraction and entertainment. Vince figured he did too. His paintings had become bleak and washed-out lately. 

People were nervous, excitable, frustrated that they couldn’t touch each other and had to wear surgical masks when they went outside, and many lost their jobs. Some of them violated the mandates, flagrantly walking around unmasked, throwing huge parties, keeping their businesses open when they weren’t supposed to. The media kept daily count: 100,000. Half a million. Ten million. A hundred million.

And then came the call.

“We have to get her into a home as soon as possible. The group homes aren’t safe. Not just physically; emotionally. The kids are climbing the walls. They can’t play outside. They can’t go to school. They have to take classes online. We can’t allow prospective parents to visit; we tried doing visits online, but the parents and children need to touch each other. We’ve had to suspend adoptions and new foster placements. We’d hoped this was short-term, but. . . .” Ms. Shipley was babbling; Vince couldn’t even imagine this cool-headed woman as flustered. He put his phone on speaker—or rather, Howard did; Vince had no idea how. They shared Vince’s office chair and pressed close together to listen.

“Wait. Start over,” Howard spoke in his reasoned, seasoned editor voice. “Why are you calling?”

There was a heavy sigh on the other end, then Ms. Shipley collected herself. “Abigail. Her adoptive father ran off. Lost his job, started an affair with a pizza deliverer, then took off. The mother can’t manage. Four kids, no income, mortgage. She’s petitioned the court to reverse the adoption. Abigail is back with us, as of yesterday. This is not a good situation.”

“With no opportunities for another adoption,” Howard understood.

“Except!” Vince declared. 

“Yes,” said Ms. Shipley. “Except.”  
***  
“Naboo, you didn’t! It’s not permissible; it’s not legal! You’ll be thrown out of the program, put in stasis; you’ll never use magic again!”

Naboo, well baked, waved his hand. “No no no no, ‘course I didn’.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Whatev. Whatev you’re thinkin’. Break up that marriage. Start that virus. What do you think I am? None o’ that’s mine. I did one thing, one thing. Two things. I reminded that geezer he’s a lyin’, cheatin’, pizza-gobblin’ bastard. Which he already was. And then I reminded Shipley about the Except. I did good deeds all around. She wouldn’t’ve been able to go any longer with four kids to feed and no job. Good deeds. What’s goin’ to happen next is the mum is gonna pull herself together and get herself a data entry job at Amazon, where she’ll meet a widower with three kids. I think his name’s Brady.”

Dennis tightened his mouth. “I have a suspicion there’s more to the story. There will be an investigation.”

“Investigate away. But come back in six months and see how much better off everybody is.”

“Except the pizza deliverer.”

“I didn’t do it. I just took advantage.”

“If by some miracle you complete your degree and I’m forced to grant you your certificate, I’m going to assign you a very large, very strong, very humanistic Familiar with a conscience. I think his name is Bollo.” 

***  
“Except.”

Vince kissed the screen where Ms. Shipley’s cheek appeared. “Except we’re already Abby’s parents.”

“And we’ve already been through the entire screening process.”

“That was for fostering.”

“But,” Howard thrust a triumphant finger in the air. “We went through the process for adoption too, with Little Angels. Call ‘em and see.”

Ms. Shipley’s smile progressed from hopeful to relieved. “If so—”

“’If so’? Ms. Shipley, would we lie to you?” Nobody could resist the Sunshine Kid grin.

“I don’t believe so. That being so, and the trial period having already been completed, all you would have to do is petition the court, appear by Zoom before a judge, and sign the adoption papers.”

Howard nudged Vince. “See? Didn’t I tell you those Zoom lessons would pay off?”

“Little Angels will handle the legalities—”

“Not them,” Howard moaned. “Their incompetence is surpassed only by their stupidity.”

“Little Angels will handle the legalities under my direction. Meanwhile, Howard, Vince, this child needs an immediate home. Suppose your family can return all those donated items to you? Leaving them on your doorstep, of course, in respect for social distancing.”

Vince scowled. “How are you going to get Abby to us, respecting social distancing?”

“To hell with the rules. Just get that baby to us,” Howard insisted, and Vince blinked at him.

“Look outside. But stand back from your door.”

The husbands rushed to their front door, opening it but stepping backwards. Parked at the curb was a pink van the doors of which were branded in solid-citizen-type lettering: “Greater London Fostering.” Ms. Shipley’s assistant slid those doors open, dashed out and on the Noir-Moons’ threshold set a nappy bag. Then she ran back to the van to take a car seat by one hand and a toddler in the other; these too were delivered to the stoop. 

Abby pounded the door with both fists.

Howard opened the door. Vince shot out to scoop up the deliveries.

The van tooted its horn, Ms. Shipley and her assistant waved, the van doors shut and they were gone. And just like that, “We’re parents again,” said Vince in wonderment. “Look, Abby’s wearing a _Noir at Night_ t-shirt.”

“So.” Howard held the door open as Vince ducked inside. “The next decision we have to make. . . .”

“Which to tackle first: potty training or biting?”

“Nope.” Howard let the door close behind them. “Which one of us is Daddy and which is Papa?”

“You’re Papa Moon, so I must be Daddy.” Vince tried it out again: “Daddy Vince.” Then thoughtfully: “Daddy.”

***

Howard whispered to the toddler and pointed at the monitor, but whatever he’d said went ignored; she’d found his bow tie interesting and was yanking on it instead. Vince giggled. “Expressing her fashion sense already. She has her daddy’s taste.”

“God, I hope not,” Howard groaned. “If I catch her poking safety pins through her nose, I’ll know who to—”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Ms. Shipley’s face appeared on the screen. “It’s a wonderful day, isn’t it?”

“Brilliant!” “Splendiferous!”

“I’ve been hoping for this day, ever since you performed for our fundraiser, Vince. You may not remember, but your father was our headliner and when he brought you out on stage and told us the story of how you came into his life, not a dry eye in the house. And afterward, when you and he circulated among the donors, I watched them scrambling for their checkbooks to add extra zeroes after the ones in the amount column.”

“No donor escapes Bryan,” Vince acknowledged.

“Howard, when I met you backstage, the way you stood together, not touching but mirroring each other’s body language—we social workers are trained to observe such things. You know, people often put on their Sunday best when they’re trying to impress us, but things like body language reveal the truth about a relationship.”

“We passed muster, did we?” 

“You looked like a happy couple. Which is what we need for our children, of course. And having grown up as a foster child—”

“Good morning, everyone,” a new voice interrupted, then a face, a Mollie Sugden kind of face, without the neon hair. “I’m Judge Rae of the Third District Family Court and I’m delighted to meet you. Good to see you again, Ms. Shipley. Bringing us some happy business?”

“I’m very pleased to be here, Your Honor, on this special occasion as we make this family official.” Ms. Shipley introduced the three Noir-Moons. 

“This is unorthodox,” started the Judge, “Ceremonies by computer lack warmth. But the sooner the law acknowledges these three people as family, the sooner these men will have all the rights and responsibilities Abigail needs them to have. So I’ll promise you something: if you like, when this plague lifts and we can resume normal operations, if you like, just phone my office and we’ll do it again, the warm way, in my chambers, with a flute of champagne and a Sippie cup of grape juice. All right?”

“A’right, Judge,” Vince chirped, at the same time that Howard stuttered, “Yes, Your Majes—Highn—erm, yes, ma’am.”

“Very well. Now the formalities.”

***  
“Now?” Naboo demanded, maybe a little rudely; a student shouldn’t be disrespectful to the official who decides his fate. But he felt he’d been a little bit manhandled, if not outright duped. He had a right to be mad—unless that was part of the test? To see if he could hold his anger, resist using magic in a temper tantrum?

As soon as Howard clicked the keyboard to produce an electronic signature, Dennis nodded. “Now.” He picked up a feather pen and signed the parchment scroll emblazoned in gold lettering: “The University of Xooberon City Department of Shamanic Sciences hereby awards the degree of Master of Shamanic Sciences and the title Enigma (Second Class) to Naboo Randoph Boberdy.”

“You left my middle name off,” Naboo pointed out dryly. 

“Wasn’t room on the diploma.” 

“I waited a long time for this.”

“Oh, all right.” With flick of his finger, Dennis shrank the letters and drew in a proofreader’s caret after the “Randolph.” He then picked up his pen and scribbled “Roberty.” “Satisfied?”

Naboo nodded. When Vince added his signature to the adoption papers, Dennis slid the diploma across the table to its rightful owner. Before Dennis could change his mind, Naboo rolled up the scroll and tucked it into his robes. In the image in the crystal ball, the Judge and the social worker were applauding while Vince was hugging Howard and Abby was tossing the bow tie to the dog. 

“Well? Don’t I get a ceremony?”

“Huh?”

The tiny graduate crossed his arms. “A graduation ceremony. Cap and gown. Walk across a stage. Applause and pictures, that sort of thing.”

“You’re lucky you got the diploma. Remember that, Naboo. You’re an apprentice now; you still answer to me.” A dramatic puff of purple smoke, accompanied by a firecracker explosion, and the Head Shaman and his crystal ball gone. In his place stood a puzzled gorilla wearing a gift bow atop his head. Naboo groaned; the gorilla grumbled, “I got a bad feeling about this.”

***  
Back on Earth, Ms. Shipley presented her charges with a virtual champagne bottle and a Sippie cup. Then, with a blush, Howard ducked in to the master bedroom, reemerged with his twelve-string and announced, “I, erm, we thought we might give Abby two birthdays, the birth one and the adoption one. So we have a couple of presents for her.” 

He nodded a signal to Vince, who cantered off to the dining table and carried back a yellow cake with chocolate icing and a PJ Masks candle topper. He lit the candle, then scooped up the baby and urged her to blow the light out. Abby punched a hole in the cake, raised her fist to her mouth and licked, then giggled devilishly. 

“We’ll work on her table manners,” Howard said.

“I made this myself,” Vince explained to the women. “That’s why it’s so plain. I could’ve asked any of the Bake Off bakers to do it and they would’ve given me something amazing but I wanted it to be from me.”

“It’s lovely,” the Judge approved. “And as I’m on duty, I must judge truthfully.”

“My present is this.” Howard adjusted the guitar on his knees and began to play, a soft and soothing tune that Vince had heard somewhere. He didn’t sing; he explained later that the song was an instrumental. Abby watched the strings for a moment, then her papa’s face; he winked at her and she giggled. Before the song was finished, though, she insisted on being set down so she could return to her blocks. 

Howard finished the tune. “That’s called ‘Abby’s Song.’ It was the one that I was writing that night, remember?”

Vince squeezed his hand and nodded. 

“Happy Adoption Birthday, Little Miss Noir-Moon,” Ms. Shipley cheered. 

JUNE-AUGUST 2020

“I can’t. We waiting so long, went through all that crap to get her, I can’t go away, not now. She wouldn’t understand. She’ll think I abandoned her—”

“You have a contract, Vince.” Howard held up his hand. “No. I know: contracts can be broken. But not this one, not at this time. There’s your career; you’re on fire now. You start acting like a prima dona, you’re going to develop a reputation you won’t want. You haven’t been a big shot long enough to step on contracts.”

Vince grumbled, “We don’t need the money.”

“That’s not the point and you know it. And then, as you said before, it’s not just you and the producers. It’s the director, the writers, the lighting guys, the contestants, the, the guys that lay the cable. The ones without the contracts they can afford to step on.”

“I’ll apologize. They’ll understand; lots of them have kids.”

“Kids that need shoes.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. The producers will bring in a substitute host. Matt can recommend a dozen good comedians, probably.”

“This is a teaching moment, Vince. You’re teaching her that an adult, even a daddy, has responsibilities that go beyond the immediate family.”

“She’s too young for such abstract lessons. All she knows is people keep passing her around like a, I don’t know what. All she’ll feel is she’s abandoned. I know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“I know you do. But there’s a big difference. You’ll be back in six weeks, to stay. And then you’ll go back to regular hours and come home every night to paint and tell her stories.” Howard paused for breath. “What about the viewers? You think you have fans now, you’ve barely scratched the surface. Those Bake Off fans are sharks! You wanna guess why? And this year, when they’re stuck at home, a lot of them losing their jobs, the one thing they can count on is their Bake Off. It makes them feel good, like the world is kind and gentle. It’s been their show for 10 years. Besides the chat shows and the evening news, there’s hardly any other fresh entertainment on.”

“Yeah to all that. That’s what the producers said, why we’re going forward with the new series. But it doesn’t have to be me. Matt and Paul and Prue will still be there.”

“Think about how some of those fans complained when Sue and Mary and Mel left. Think about how they shrieked when Love Productions announced Vince Noir, rock ‘n’ roller/party animal had been hired for their show. But you won ‘em over, didn’t you?”

“Most of ‘em.”

“With a lot of help from your friends. The ratings are better than ever. Will be even better now, with so few new shows to watch. You have to do this. Go on, Vince, and don’t forget there’s the Internet. We’ll Zoom at night, we’ll email every day, I’ll take lots of pictures and make vines, and if something big happens, I’ll text or call, and so will you.” Howard kissed his forehead. “For cryin’ out loud, you’re not Christian Howes. You’re not being punished. You’ll be back in six weeks.” 

Vince had no idea who Christian Howes was, but he got the point. So he made no complaint to his bosses; he quarantined himself at home for nine days, enduring two COVID tests (long Q-Tips shoved up his witchy nose). He emailed army veterans to ask how their families managed deployment. Among the advice he received was a thing called Flat Daddy: a life-size standee constructed with Daddy’s photograph. The stay-at-home parent would place the standee in a place where Baby would most expect Daddy to be: a living room, a garden, a garage. In Vince’s case, the painting room. Howard wasn’t sure this was a good idea: it might confuse a toddler or worse, scare her when Flat Daddy didn’t move or speak. But the military families prompted them to try, so Vince asked Bake Off’s art production staff to make him a Flat Daddy. Vince draped his poncho over Flat Daddy’s shoulders. 

Reluctantly, Vince sought advice from Ms. Shipley. His hands, hidden under the kitchen table so she wouldn’t see them as they Zoomed, he explained the situation, Howard standing behind him, squeezing his shoulder. She said she already knew: she’d read about it in Hello! She saw through him. “Are you nervous, Vince? We would never take her away from you, especially not because of your job.”

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

Then she said something he hadn’t expected that set his mind to ease, as far at the legalities were concerned: “We’re not in the business of breaking children’s hearts.”

On the appointed date, he packed his bags, his electronics, his easel and his photo album, kissed his family goodbye and let the chauffeur cart him off in a rental car to the Down Hall Country House Hotel, which BBC-4 rented out in entirity. Over the next six weeks he’d be imprisoned (never mind what Howard had said about Christian Howes and prison [Vince had looked Howes up]) with a 130 crewmen and -women, bakers, hotel staff and Security. A few of the bakers were allowed to bring their children and dogs, nannies and dog walkers were hired, but Vince dared not risk taking even Kad after he read an article about zoo animals catching COVID. No one was allowed to leave the bubble. The extra salaries cost Love Productions a fortune, but then they spent money they didn’t have to, to keep the cast entertained: Sunday night football games hosted by Vince, Monday pizza dinners with Paul, Tuesday and Wednesday nights music concerts by Zoom, Wednesday night a flower arranging class taught by Prue, Thursday night Bingo, MC’ed by Matt, Friday night a themed dance. Go-Karts (Hollywood’s pick) for the cast and crew to race with. Crates full of canvases for Vince to paint with. He thought he’d perfected Abby’s eyes, but her ever-mobile mouth, he couldn’t capture. 

They filmed two days on, two days off, for 12-14 hours a day. The cast thought that a cruel schedule; their humor lost its spontaneity. But that was for the sake of the crew and the equipment, trying to function at full strength in the July and August heat. (Vince never felt satisfied with the producers’ explanation at why the tent couldn’t be erected in an air-conditioned soundstage.)

Six damn weeks trapped between four locations: the baking tent, the hotel room, the hotel restaurant, and the cars that went back and forth between the hotel and the tent. Six damn weeks of nose swabs every morning before they were allowed inside the tent. Chapped hands from constant squirts of sanitizer (the production team had hired an intern just for the hand washing). Six damn weeks of listening to Paul Hollywood’s severely limited collection of Hank Snow CDs during breaks. Six damn weeks of Zoom chats that cut off when the Internet connection was lost. 

The first—and second, third, fourth, fifth—time that Vince tried to Zoom with his family, he went away heartbroken. Howard, smiling larger than he’d smiled since their wedding, recounted the day’s accomplishments, reading from his notebook; then he picked Abby up and set her on his lap and pointed at the monitor screen. “Look! Who is that, sweet pea? Who is that?”

“Hi, sweet pea! Hi, baby! It’s Daddy! Hey, look here, baby! Look, it’s me! I’m waving at you. Lift her higher, Howard; she can’t see me. Turn up the volume.”

It was the volume or the height. Each time, Abby would twist herself in Howard’s lap, peeking around, not into, the monitor. She frown as Howard tried patiently to explain what the computer was, who that was in the image, where Daddy had gone and when he would come home. She squirmed, he talked, Vince waved and pleaded for her attention, but a few minutes of that and she got bored, demanding to be released to play with her blocks or her Weebles. Kadaway was interested; he sniffed at and around the monitor; he whined at Vince’s voice, he sat at Howard’s feet, insulted by the trick these mean humans were playing on a faithful old dog. But Abby squirmed and wiggled her fingers at the floor, her sign to be released. Every damn time. 

“She’s forgotten me already.” Vince scrubbed his face with a hotel bath towel. 

“She has not. She remembers you, she thinks about you all the time, she misses you. She loves you like I do; she just can’t express it.”

“She’s mad at me for leaving her. She’s punishing me. I did that too: when Bryan came back after a tour, I’d pretend to ignore him, like didn’t matter to me.”

“It’s not the same. She’s too young to understand. She doesn’t have the cognitive development to understand what the movement on the screen means. She hears you, recognizes your voice, but can’t see you and it frustrates her, so she loses interest.” 

“She doesn’t want me any more.”

“That’s not so. I’ve been reading about this. If she were a year or two older, she’d understand how telecommunications works. She’d know that was you and she’d start talking back. She’s just too young, Vince.”

“Does she cry for me, ‘cause I’m not there to tuck her in? Did she get the paintings I sent? Does she know I made them for her?”

Howard opened and closed his mouth without offering an answer. 

They’d talk some more, sharing the trivial news of the day, making decisions about household matters, making plans for the future—not for when Vince got home, because museums and clubs would still be closed, but for Someday: which pre-school to send her to, where to take her on holiday. How to make her feel secure, considering she had a Daddy who once ran out on her. Every damn time they talked it went the same. The routine conversation, Howard’s cool-jazz voice made Vince feel better, but no less guilty. The parents in the Bake Off crew understood and gave him his privacy when he cried. The dog owners allowed him to walk their dogs. 

Then it was over for the cast and the bakers. Somebody won; Vince couldn’t remember who. Another day, day-and-a-half of work for the crew, with pickup and beauty shots, then another day to pack up the equipment. They claimed they didn’t mind that the performers got to leave early; the cast was just in the way, anyway. 

The cast weren’t released to their chauffeurs until one last COVID test was run. Vince listened to The Ramones on his iPod all the way home; it cleared his mind. He had sad little presents to bring his family, items he’d bought at the hotel, since he couldn’t go shopping: a salt and pepper set shaped like Her Majesty and Prince Philip, for Howard; hotel emblemed tea towels for the Moon clan; and for Abby, a Jimmy Carr plushie. The Welford Park citizenry thought Carr a local hero of sorts; Vince just found the toy absurdly funny. For Bryan, Vince had swiped one of Hollywood’s Hank Snow CDs.

When they crossed over the city line, Vince put his iPod away and started watching the passing landmarks, all of them familiar, all of them assuring. The chauffeur rolled down the partition and with a smirk, cranked up his radio. A song was playing that made Vince laugh out loud, an American pop song from long ago about arriving home to loved ones after a long deployment. Vince swung his foot in time to the beat and sang along: “I told you I’d come back and here I am.”

And then, there he was. They were waiting on the balcony as the car pulled up to the curb, Howard half-crouching so he could hold on to her hand, she attempting to lean through the bars of the railing with him struggling to hold her back. Before he could get the car door open, Howard has scooped her up and was running back inside the flat. A moment later, as the driver had popped the boot, Howard had galloped out to the lawn.

The memory hit him hard: himself and Howard as small children, sitting on the curb, waiting and making boastful plans, until the taxi rolled round the corner and came to a stop in front of the Ferry house. The tall, elegant man stepping out, smoothing his jacket down, then Vince wrinkling it just as fast by throwing his arms around Bryan’s waist. “See? I’m back. I told you I would.”

Howard blinked and harrumphed. “Hungry?”

“If you cooked, I am.”

“Nothing less would be good enough for my Little Man.” Maybe it wasn’t Cream Poetry, but for Howard, it was an overt act of PDA. “Can we hug? I had a COVID test yesterday.”

“Me too.” They hugged around Abby, then Vince grabbed Howard by the rollneck and dragged him in for a kiss, never mind the neighbors. The driver carried Vince’s bags to the threshold, nodded farewell and drove away, all while the kiss was still going on. Vince’s arm snaked around Howard’s waist and they walked inside together. Before they got to the kitchen, however, the toddler wiggled her fingers and shouted her first word—both Vince and Howard gasped: her first word, and not voiced softly but shouted! “Oh, she’s gonna be force in this world,” Howard laughed.

But it wasn’t the shouting that made Vince gasp. It was the word and to whom that word was directed: “Da!” And when neither man moved, she shouted again, “Dada!” and leaned forward, nearly pulling herself out of Howard’s grasp; she might have fallen if Vince hadn’t grabbed her.

Which was exactly what she wanted.

***  
“All right, I’m satisfied.” With a dismissive wave of hand, Dennis made his crystal ball vanish. “Not pleased, mind you, but satisfied. Stand up.” 

Naboo clambered to his feet, his own, brand-new Acme Supertech Shamanic Crystal Ball, Model 3.2™, a graduation gift from the Board of Shamans, tucked under his arm, lest Dennis get some greedy ideas about it.

“Naboo Roberty Boberty Whatever, Enigma Second Class, here’s your first assignment.” A parchment scroll tied with a red silk ribbon appeared atop Naboo’s turban. 

“Very funny.” Naboo snatched the scroll down but before he could unroll it, the Head had already disappeared. “Not even a ‘good job’ or ‘congratulations’?” Naboo yelled after the dissipating puff of purple smoke. “Where’s my Familiar? I’m supposed to be assigned a Familiar.”

Another puff of smoke and where Dennis had once stood, now stood a confused and cranky looking gorilla. 

“I suppose you’re Bollo,” said Naboo.

“I got a bad feeling about this.”

Naboo unrolled his assignment. “What? No! Dalston?! Dennis, you bog licker, you can’t do this to me! I did everything--”

“Can and did,” a faceless voice called out. “Now get to work, you lazy sod.”

Naboo tossed the scroll aside. “Screw this. I’m taking a holiday.” He vanished in smoke.

“What about Bollo?” the gorilla pleaded.

“Aw hell,” answered a disembodied voice. 

“Where we go?”

“Here.” In a blink, Bollo found himself wearing shades and board shorts. “Hope you know how to surf.”

And in a final puff of smoke, the gorilla was gone too.


End file.
